the day goes past my sight and turns to gray
as distant, floating things become unseen;
so much i’ve known has gone, or dimmed away —-
the brightly colored world of seventeen
has faded like an aging magazine,
and falls within the shadow of the storm,
to lose all hue, and barely keep its form.

the rains must come, they must, i know it’s so,
the sailor find his way back into port —-
the pilot, too, must let her wand’ring go,
and head back home to file her report,
for nature does, at last, our time cut short.
the day goes past, and fades in grays and blues:
we had our time, and what we have, we lose