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Wealth: a Well-Spent Age[1]

It’s not when you’ve Lived a Great Many Years

That you Age – but when you Forget Being a Child[2]

Bisected now by Bleaker Griefs, we Envy the Despair

That Devastates Childhood’s Realm, so Easy to Repair[3]

Because Once on a time you were Young, Sing of what is

Taking Place, Talk to us for a Spell, Confer your Special Grace[4]

Rheumy Eyes Watch Children play – seeing only Transience in

Their Shrill Elation and their Wholehearted Commitment to Life[5]

Wisdom’s a Gift but you’d Change it for Youth – Age is an Honor, it’s still Not the Truth[6]

It’s as we go Onward in Life, when objects Lose their Freshness of Hue and our

Souls their Delicacy of Perception – that the Spirit of Beauty is most Needed[7]

Kissed by World-Shards – Scarred by Time-Grains – Time-Dust[8]

An Endless Ego-Existence is more Dreadful to me than the idea

Of Letting Go the Self in Death to Rejoin Shared Eternal Being[9]

Ancient Arms – to Infant Light[10]

[1] Thomas Campian, Integer Vitae

[2] Valentin Rasputin tr. Eve Manning, French Lessons

[3] Emily Dickinson, Childhood Griefs

[4] Sappho tr. Aaron Poochigian, “Because once on a time you were”

[5] Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things

[6] Rostam Batmanglij, Ezra Koenig, & David Gates, Step

[7] Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Artist of the Beautiful

[8] Paul Celan tr. Nikolai Popov & Heather McHugh, Flung wood

[9]Ursula K. Le Guin, Afterward to The Farthest Shore

[10] Denise Levertov, Candlemas

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