Call me each hour you still resist
The endless hours you call your life,
Beseeching near in dog-faced mist,
Yet always turned away in strife
Should you now see their meaning's gloam.
And mostly yours was what we lost;
Yet we are free, left there to roam
Where we believe our paths first crossed.
And fearful do we yearn for pause,
Too young sometimes for yarn and lace,
Too old for that which never was.
And we alone still praise that place,
Alas, where we're both branch and brawn,
The sweetness of ripe danger's song.