Beyond the distant fence, beyond that field
Are imagined places; I’d hoped to be real.
Not now, but someday I’ll go and find
Lands hinted by God to my doubting mind.
As the sailor to sea, alone at night
Fears the coming storm with a terrible fright,
So I fear to release, ragged and torn
This husk of self, though grey and forlorn.
For youth plays within yet, mischievous child,
’Neath the rags of the years all heaped a pile;
And beckons me still to linger and stay
In the walks and rooms of loves gone away.