SING me, thou Singer, a song of gold!
Said a careworn man to me:
So I sang of the golden summer days,
And the sad, sweet autumn’s yellow haze,
Till his heart grew soft, and his mellowed gaze
Was a kindly sight to see.
Sing me, dear Singer, a song of love!
A fair girl asked of me:
Then I sang of a love that clasps the Race,
Gives all, asks naught — till her kindled face
Was radiant with the starry grace
Of blessed Charity.
Sing me, O Singer, a song of life!
Cried an eager youth to me:
And I sang of the life without alloy,
Beyond our years, till the heart of the boy
Caught the golden beauty, and love, and joy
Of the great Eternity.
- Edward Rowland Sill (1841–1887)
When I think of the past and the now, and all the all-too-recent nows, I see a pattern; that what was in the past has rarely continued to remain in my present. By some butterfly effect or whatever, the people who were at the forefront of my younger life have receded to become memory. Fond memory, but memory just the same.
Don’t you feel it’s such a waste that people you once cared about in your younger and more nubile days hardly figure in your life these days? Not even virtually? But that, as they say, is how the cookie crumbles.
So I catch the golden beauty, and love, and joy that today brings. And the promise of eternity…