Friday, October 28, 2005
And stolen from the old;
A purse purloined while carefree sung
Hot lips that soon grew cold.
Ah, age: what wisdom's worth this cost?
We trade decrepit pain
For trifles, with our passing lost–
And call the commerce gain.
Ah, beauty: flowers bloom and fade,
Their saddened petals fall;
And all their former glories weighed
Will scarcely count at all.
Ah, truth–no two can quite agree;
Is truth itself a thing,
Or that which eyes pretend to see,
Beyond real reckoning?
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull