Age

I have a dream, that somewhere in the days, Since when a myriad suns have burned and died, There was a time my soul was not for pride Of spendthrift youth, the pensioner who pays Dole for the pain of searching thro' the haze Where joy lies hidden. As the puff balls ride, The wandering wind across the Summer's side-- So winged my spirit in a golden blaze Of pure and careless Present--Future naught But a sad dotard's wail--and I was young, Who now am old. Now years like flashes seem, Lambent or grey on the great wall of Thought-- This is a song a poet may have sung-- No proof remains, I have but dreamed a dream.