Poem At Thirty-Five Age thirty-five: that means half the course, Like Dante, we stand midway in life; Our youthful verve, vigor and resource -Wanton is our plea, in vain our strife- Drift away blind to tears of remorse. Look at my temples, are they snow-clad? O my God, is this wrinkled face me? These eyes rimmed with rings purple and sad? Why are you now my arch enemy, Mirrors, the best friends I ever had? All this change is more than I can bear: None of my pictures here could be mine. Where did all those days of joy go, where? Can’t be me, this man smiling benign. It’s a lie that I’m free of care. Out first love looks hazy, far away, A memory driven from our heart. Friends who set out with us on life’s way. Took separate paths and strayed apart. Now our loneliness grows day by day. Odd, I find out that the sky can turn. Into other hues, that stone is hard. That the waters drown and the flames burn, And each new day brings a painful load- All these at thirty-five I could learn. Autumn, quince yellow pomegranate red; Each year I feet it’s closer to me, Why do these birds circle overhead, And these ravaged gardens that I see? What funeral is this? Who is dead? Immutably death is all men’s fate. “Slept, never woke,” will be the story, And who knows where or why or how late? You shall have but one prayer’s glory On the throne-like stone-bier while in state.
Posted on: Sun, 10 Nov 2013 20:02:11 +0000
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