How comes it that, at even-tide,
When level beams should show most truth,
Man, failing, takes unfailing pride
In memories of his frolic youth?
Venus and Liber fill their hour;
The games engage, the law-courts prove;
Till hardened life breeds love of power
Or Avarice, Age’s final love.
Yet at the end, these comfort not –
Nor any triumph Fate decrees –
Compared with glorious, unforgot –
Ten innocent enormities
Of frontless days before the beard,
When, instant on the casual jest,
The God Himself of Mirth appeared
And snatched us to His heaving breast
And we – not caring who He was
But certain He would come again –
Accepted all He brought to pass
As Gods accept the lives of men…
Then He withdrew from sight and speech,
Nor left a shrine. How comes it now,
While Charon’s keel grates on the beach,
He calls so clear: “Rememberest thou?”
