Gnawing on the putrid skin & bones
Of long-since passed, more-fleshly zones of pleasure,
The mind convicts itself of riches lost
And present poverty's poor attempts to measure
Up to change & ageing. So, it hones
The rosy-tinted visions of the greener
Grass of golden youth to melt the frost
And snows it suffers daily all the keener?
But, truth to tell, there never was a time
Of glory, strength or joy, nor perfect love
And consummated longings? Merely, striving;
Ploughing up & down the fields; above,
The louring sky; below, the clods & lime
Or unrelenting earth; & we, surviving?

L. A. Barron


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