Forty-Two

As I sit idly dreaming, love,

     My thoughts fly back to you;

Fly to my trusting, old, old, love,

     Now nearing forty-two.

We whiled away the moony nights,

     As lovers always do;

And we were happy. Old, old, love,

     Now almost forty-two.

But as the summer waned and fled,

     I waned and fled from you;

That you might be my old, old, love,

     Of summers forty-two.

Forgive my foolish act, it was

     The best that I could do;

And in your solitude reflect

     That I am forty too.

Jan. 6, ‘93

Pub. in the

Camb. Press