Tenaciously I clung to outworn dreams,
I would be young and keep the mind June-burdened.
(A catacomb for ghosts, I learned, with gleams
From dead moons flickering) Now autumn-guerdoned.
Mature as earth, I taste the wine of youth;
Embrace October, and I hear no sighing
From musty tombs, but clarion calls of truth.
My spirit sings its freedom from the dying:
Reality is stern, but oh, how good
Though kissed more acridly by lips of sorrow,
To build of granite, not of rotting wood,
The temples to adorn the new tomorrow--
Ripe fruit was clinging to a withered bough;
Seeing, I shook the limb and greeted NOW.