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MCMXIII
by Victoria Mary Sackville-WestSo prodigal was I of youth,
Forgetting I was young;
I worshipped dead men for their strength,
Forgetting I was strong.
I cherished old, jejune advice;
I thought I groped for truth;
Those dead old languages I learned
When I was prodigal of youth!
Then in the sunlight stood a boy,
Outstretching either hand,
Palm upwards, cup-like, and between
The fingers trickled sand.
"Oh, why so grave" he cried to me,
"Laugh, stern lips, laugh at last!
Let wisdom come when wisdom may.
The sand is running fast."
I followed him into the sun,
And laughed as he desired,
And every day upon the grass
We play till we are tired.