Unflustered epoch, warmer, bright,
when all the world willed pure delight
and games gave chase through afternoons
on cloudless days in Mays or Junes:

then, time stood furthest from the mind
and spring was always close behind
wherever winter served its worst.
How we would hurry, sing, or burst

into the yards, play hide or seek,
watch butterflies, or climb to peek
beyond the forest full of thrills
to glimpse the mountain past the hills.

We swore we would explore it all,
run higher, deeper, like the ball
one throws much further thanks to age.
Impatiently we turned that page

and scurried toward maturity,
oblivious to misery.
The vernal hours vanish fast.
To those yet youthful: make them last!