| The day dawns with scent of must and rain, | |
| Of opened soil, dark trees, dry bedroom air. | |
| Under the fading lamp, half dressed – my brain | |
| Idling on some compulsive fantasy- | |
| I towel my shaven jaw and stop, and stare, | 5 |
| Riveted by a dark exhausted eye, | |
| A dry downturning mouth. | |
| | |
| It seems again that it is time to learn, | |
| To which, for the time being, I return. | 10 |
| In this untiring, crumbling place of growth | |
| Now plainly in the mirror of my soul | |
| I read that I have looked my last on youth | |
| And little more; for they are not made whole | |
| That reach the age of Christ. | |
| | |
| Below my window the awakening trees, | |
| Hacked clean for better bearing, stand defaced | |
| Suffering their brute necessities, | |
| And how should the flesh not quail that span for span | |
| Is mutilated more? In slow distaste | |
| I fold my towel with what grace I can, | 20 |
| Not young and not renewable, but man. | |
