The window open, I grant autumn passage -
The inexpressible, that as of old
And still the same. My one desire, all told,
Is this: to always love its message.
This life held little to be won in store.
It does not matter now. Defence is vain
If one considers all the world-old pain
Of countless billions who have gone before.
Youth is all restlessness and a bemused
Great yearning to have loved ones time can’t best –
And loneliness a source of loss, a curse.
All that is past, and life is almost used.
In solitude the heart can now find rest.
And then: one’s life could well have been much worse.