They have dreamed as young men dream Of glory, love and power; They have hoped as youth will hope Of life’s sun-minted hour. They have seen as other saw Their bubbles burst in air, And they have learned to live it down As though they did not care.
Would I might mend the fabric of my youth
That daily flaunts its tatters to my eyes,
Would I might compromise awhile with truth
Until our moon now waxing, wanes and dies.
For I would go a further while with you,
And drain this cup so tantalant and fair
Which meets my parched lips like cooling dew,
Ere time has brushed cold fingers through my hair!