Till Death Collects His Due Poem by John Yaws

The mossy Northwest forests-
The sun-baked Southwest plain…
The tropic island beaches,
I'd see them all again.

The humid, sweltering jungle,
The snow-capped mountain peaks…
Reward the wandering dreamer-
Provide the balm he seeks.

To question, delve, examine-
The thoughts and dreams of yore…
With every bit of knowledge,
I find I long for more.

A dreamer? Aye, a minstrel?
Perhaps I am that, too…
With what I've lived, and all I've read-
I scarce know what is "true".

But is that not the magic-
Found on the written page?
To grant forgotten vistas-
To men of every age?

So I will read; then dream; then write-
And knowledge I'll pursue…
Until I'm withered, hair gone white,
And Death collects his due.