(From Twilight Clear)

So now we stand upon this sunset crest,
To taste the golden fruitage on Love's Tree,
Folk say, "She's looking spry today. Well, well!"
Pray what are gasps at beauty's fades to me?

Are we sweet beggars crouched in ragged clay,
That we must gauge our troth by crinkled brow?
Do we not feel our childhoods' thrill at morn,
As keen as any dawn-break in the Now?

Whence has the change come, dear, since once we paused
In freighted youth on long-lost country walk,
To sit in grass of greener years, breeze swept,
And marvel that an ant ran up a stalk?

Is not the robin's call at sunset, clear as
Any note that childhood's ear might mark?
Is not our world the same, its fond skies blue,
Our winter's snow as hushed in evening's dark?

Is not all food as friendly to our taste,
All spring smoke sweet in scent on April night?
Is not our love of June made richer yet by Time
When mellowed by the burns of autumn's light?

Men say, "They're growing old!" What jest to spring
That age is other than mere bend of spine.
I am the lad who loved you once, made rich
By what Life's memories show me now was mine.

What then has changed but much-worked sinew lean,
That still finds daylight's tasks a thrill to do?
Or rather, has the change not subtler been
That my heart's love is richer now for you?

We go down autumn glades, 'neath scarlet leaves
To where the haze of years fades off in mist,
So has our journey run, 'twixt all Fair Hills,
Past blurred …’Twas all a Lovers' Tryst!

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