Muse of another day,
Simple, honest, attentive,
Not quite passed, but passing
As amber leaves on autumn winds must pass, and
In passing, leaving
Memories and grieving
Of wondrous hours now dying,
Crying in the night.
Would that I might feel again the hearts I felt before
Who swept, too quickly, by me,
Racing into twilight.

Soul of another vision,
Clear, sweet, revealing,
Not quite fled but fleeing
As children robbed by guile must flee
And in fleeing, leaving
Memories and grieving
Of wondrous hours now dying,
Crying in the night.
Would that I might grasp again
The strands of life and loving,
Living and forgiving
Now all too quickly gone.

If you would linger yet a while
In dilettante-ish waste
To hear laments on dyings
And on passings
And on flowing flames forgotten,
Forsaken,
Anachronistic dreams of anachronistic people
Stretched across the rack of time
And cracked dry as rotting flesh—
Fabric eaten by the moths of progress—
Promise drunk sere by the sun—
Lake beds in patterns checkered by despair—
If you would trace the steps of honor
Into musty ethers of my mind and
Find there a nothingness,
A pulp of pap, a crown of hate,
A bitter loss as yet unsung,
Hear then now:
I speak,
Speak only for you.