Insomnia reading

By my bed is a book of Borges' selected poems, which is giving me great pleasure (thanks, H, for introducing me to Borges's poetry). And a couple of nights ago, suffering insomnia and with spirits lowered because of a mild cold, I open it at the following, which does wonders for my mood:

There is a line by Verlaine that I will not remember again.
There is a street nearby that is off limits to my feet.
There is a mirror that has seen me for the last time.
There is a door I have closed until the end of the world.
Among the books in my library (I'm looking at them now) are some I will never open.
This summer I will be fifty years old.
Death is using me up, relentlessly.

[Borges attributes this to Julio Platero Haedo, Inscriptions (Montevideo, 1923), not that I believe him.]