“. . . where no storms come”
Age has left its mark on us. Once we were
Children of sunlight, and our cup was full.
Our tired faces are now lined with care—
We, the once young, the achingly beautiful!
Triumphant youth, so fleet of foot, has gone;
Gone with spent tears, the treadmill of the days,
The wounds and scars of battles lost and won,
The old addictions and the wasteful ways.
Virtue, too, has taken its toll. These eyes
Reflect a sadder wisdom in them now.
How low they’ve fallen, those who strove to rise
To name and fame and find the Golden Bough.
Ah Summerland, Elysium of the mind!—
The Shangri-La no earthly travellers find,
The longed for Heaven Haven of mankind.