Things I have wasted, cast aside and lost Out of great plenty and a mind to play, Are with me in this time of counting cost, Red ink I love across the ledger's gray. There has been beauty that I would not see, Being drowsy, dull or busy at a book, Years like ripe fruit, rotting beneath a tree, Moonlight I slept away, friends I forsook. What does it matter that I still have fire To warm me till I die, or something less? Life is a flame, tall as a burning spire, Not coals to crouch beside in nakedness, Not candle ends, but summer just begun, With never a ticking clock nor setting sun. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TWENTY GOLDEN YEARS AGO by JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN WHEN I BUY PICTURES by MARIANNE MOORE STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1720 by JONATHAN SWIFT POCAHONTAS [JANUARY 5, 1608] by WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY MESSENGERS by BORIS NIKOLAYEVICH BUGAYEV |