What remains at the end of living time,
Not but tales of the past, sweet memories
Of glory days when youth did reign sublime,
Every day redolent of victory;
But now, the body frail, the timid mind
Sees no more battles to be fought and won,
No more tall mountains worthy of hard climb,
No valleys ripe with spoil, dark depths unplumbed;
Still now I see the fruits of sportive days
Making new lives that are but theirs alone,
Carrying on the gift of wills and ways
That we bestowed before proud years were done;
So through their joys and woes we carry on,
As dying echos in a living song.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.