Except here in my verse,
The tenor of it growing old,
Not either less nor worse.
Complaints to doctors got me naught,
"It is not bad enough,"
So I endured, and so was taught
The going can get tough.
Alas, young men, ye hardly know
What trials ye may face
Upon the road ahead—what woe,
Indignity or grace.
The hoped for love may never come,
The hoped for rescue either,
And even though life strikes you dumb
You cannot get a breather,
Until the last of this shall lapse,
The end of breath for me—
So I may yet greet new mishaps
Until the death of me.
What little bit of grace may come,
Recurs but in my thought,
Enough to balance all my sum
With any luck, to naught,
Or just a decimal higher—that's
The thought of you redeems
Though every hope fell through the slats
Retrieveless but in dreams.