My years of summer sun are wasted yet,
In boredom, labour, tears and fret.
What I’ll be is what I’ve been,
But spring comes once in seventeen.
I shut the door on the sunny clime.
Telling myself, “some other time”.
I let the caressing wind pass me,
Without letting lose my ecstacy.
It billows into linen and I behold,
No more than a glimpse of the beauty they hold.
Blue skies rise over one and set
But my years of sun are wasted yet.
My tears of toil and quest, promise
There shall be brighter days than this
But todays soft hues shall never be seen
For spring comes only once at seventeen.
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