The waxing tide swells for a flood;
and, surging for the unattainable moon,
fails and falls back on the ebb.
The energies of youth likewise swell for a flood
and, falling short, retreat to the ebb of days
to whimper out what was and might have been
but for the misalignment of moon and stars.
And the young man flings forth his soul
into far-off days and the pull of a distant star
until the perihelion of his path
wraps him back
to retrace spent days gone just wide of the mark.
Comments about this poem (Reminiscence by Patrick Dennis )
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley