On the day when youth is no more upon me I will write of the leaves and the moon in a tree top! I will sing then the song, long in the making— When the stress of youth is put away from me.
How can I ever be written out as men say? Surely it is merely an interference with the long song— This that I am now doing.
But when the spring of it is worn like the old moon And the eaten leaves are lace upon the cold earth— Then I will rise up in my great desire— Long at the birth—and sing me the youth-song!