My youth of yore now seems like myth to me,

A dream by day and night and twilight;

A play of biblical acts and whimsey,

Of proverbial meanings and meaningless chore,

Made light even then by the learning and a joy of being;

When the delight of knowledge and knowing

Were forbidden fruits, the bitter as good as the sweet;

 And friendships bloomed as wildflowers do, and withered,

As if the hours were days in a haze of years.

And life—life was a play, set on a stage with wings,

With limits unknown, and without intermissions.

Myth it was, and me too stupid to see,

If I’d seen that then, there might be some eternal me.