1962 Poem by Jim Young

I sat by a fire dwindling low,
the final ashes crackling epitaphs.
The windows were in crispness balmed,
fresh diamond snow from winery chaffs
took refuge against the leaden panes
and misted up my view upon the world.

In the corner,
on a stool inlaid with the dust of years,
a candle flickered,
then waxed,
and waned,
and died.
While in me died the hope of dreams.
And the winter wind was the one who cried,
when one more ill-begotten soul did yield.