Fourth Dimension Poem by James Walter Orr

Some years' birth show themselves misbegotten.
Some years we hate to leave behind, but yet,
Those that linger longest, best forgotten,
May have too many memories to forget.
Years weave the fabric from which we cut love,
That clothes the very essence we believe.
Step by step it builds all we consist of:
That which we give, and that which we receive.
The apex, never reached, looms oh, so high,
And steeper grows the slope of our incline.
Clocks tick the midnight hour ever nigh;
Sirious, past her zenith, in decline.
The fiddles warm by playing Auld Lang Syne.
A voice says come on in, the water's fine.