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.