Had but Shakespeare
seen you then as I see you now
would he not have spake
through his magic quill,
to me fair friend
you never can be old
for as you were when first
your eye I met
such seems your beauty still?

And would not Shelley
have concluded, as do I,
so now my summer is ended
and I return to thee
mine own heart’s home?

Need I speak in my awkward words
in the September of my years
to the April of my memories
of the warm spring laughter
that stings my seasoned heart
with such happiness
that lost years seem but an interlude?