A man of seasons, worn by winds of time,
Thinks fondly of a maiden young and rare.
With copper tresses flowing, so sublime,
She stirs in him a love beyond compare.
In day and night, he ponders on her grace,
Her eyes, twin stars, illuminate his dream.
Her image does his weary thoughts displace,
Yet, love, he knows, is oft not what it seem.
“Though life’s full breadth does stretch behind my stride,
Would she find warmth in love that I hold near?
Or merely weaves a tale of passing year?”
Does seasoned age of heart love’s flame divide,
Or merely weaves a tale of passing year?”
Could time-worn heart yet sing a youthful song,
And in her eyes, might he truly belong?
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