Young P

A fit of sub-Yeatsian angst about age:

I met young P last evening
And she hugged me, bright and gay,
And who knows what befell men,
What it was, I cannot say.
But then, as we were parting,
She hugged me again – hooray!

And I dreamed of P last night
In a panoply so bright
That I awoke half sobbing
In the dim half-light;
It was then that I remembered
The trick of second sight.

But it didn’t work, my lover;
It didn’t bring her back,
And I’ve forgot her surname
Though over field and track
I may tramp this morning
By many a sunlit stack.

But it’s good she made me think
Of the vicissitudes of age,
Of evening and of morning
And all time will not assuage.
I’ll thank young P for ever
For her hugs, her kiss; this page.

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