English poem
iv
by Maurice Henry Hewlett (1861–1923)
Who is to know how she does grow Or how shapes her mind? The seasons flow, not fast or slow, We cannot lag behind. The long winds blow, a tree lies low That was an old friend: The winter snow, the summer's glow— Shall these things have an end?
When I was young I used to think I should not taste of death; And now I faint to reach the brink, And grudge my every breath That streameth to the utter air Leaving me to my tears And outlook bare, with eyes astare Upon the creeping years.