All along I sit down on this mossy boulder. . .

Yes, I have tarried here for thirty years now.

Recently I climbed down to see my old pals—

A good half of them have wended to the world

Better than the present one, as they were told.

Slowly, they vanish in the mist, one by one, row

By row, like the mere remains of the burned wax,

Turning a long flow of life into the pool of shadows.

This morn I’ve faced to face of my shade as well—

Nice guy. Before I knew it, the tears run down

My cheeks in two crystal floods: one is about

My joy of the coming pooling, another is about

The utter lack of any heavy load on parting.