Life's precious hours its fleeting foot denounce,
like as flowing rivers touched but only once,
leaves us wondering, those haste spent days of yore,
when in soft repose, bloomed Springtimes scented store,
perchance, could fate again ignite those moments rare,
or with sullen impotence, at future's dark region stare,
thus we dream whence earth its flowered fragrance sprung,
and languished long when we our love songs sung,
Alas! the pen alone dare challenge with poetic guise
to chronicle times passage, scribe what's considered wise,
Ah! wisdom, 'tis not self conceits that we in abundance find,
more oft in quietude amid the peaceful realms of mind,
a kaleidoscope of tranquility within ones being found,
when stand we firm on Autumn's leaf coloured ground,
new salad days, no differing from that of Spring,
as thoughts of love, like Matin Bells still softly ring,
author of our days relate with profanities charged quill,
to find the Doyen heart lives in Springtime still,

Thus my love, circumscribe a loving thought for me,
of hope sponsored dreams awashed in joys reality.