Oh, to be young once more
youth scenting the hair,
an easy conscience, a vision clear
taking the stairs two
by two, content to bang at the door,
certain happiness lived there, home or not;
rising to fifes and drums,
the days in endless brigade stretching forth
trusting patient heaven
ignorant of the sorry thing
a life becomes.
I wish I was a kid again
full of hustle and cheer
and innocent confidence.
Counting Circumstance
Fate is the loveliest mistake
a body can make: it
carries you far, so far,
but drops you in the end
as the crouper calls the bets in
the palace closing
and you standing baffled, luck all fled,
penniless, and past consoling.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
We learn to late, the Gift of Youth. This is not a happy poem but so true. Well done!