In the wake of this frosty Easter Mon' morn,
Many reflections had besieged me: turn by turn,
Of my travails and little sojourn in this telluric stay,
A stay, yet of a score and two, but seen much to say;
Of gracious sublime mercies bestowed upon me,
Granted plea for pity, gifts of grace, for no fee;
Of how my borrowed time in this bivouac is spent,
Severing deeds which may or may not invite a full vent;
Albeit, of soul-sickening tales, thorns and throes,
Of mortality; in this lethal enclave I've had a little dose
Now, I look back, with nostalgia, at my spring,
With pondering of what nature has next to bring,
Pondering and inscriptions in these mostly treasured lines,
Lines treasured beyond the gold in Spanish mines.
The doors of summer are set ajar,
And eyes close to hurdles to debar,
The employ of present youthful glory is called to mind,
That at winter, the frolic of full life, I'll find.
Today, I mark a score and two,
Tomorrow, I shall add a score save two,
When the tide takes me slowly to forty,
Shall I be of nature, naughty and faulty?
