When days pass in slow succession,
And the comings and goings are all repetition,
My mind wanders aimlessly to
All the days I had in a bygone youth.

How my sisters and I were mischief incarnate,
How the vilest words we uttered were “**** it!”
How the world seemed bigger when we were small
And how I believed I had a chance at it all.

Friends who came, went and never left.
Beloved pets whose death made us bereft.
Homes we helped to build with our own hands.
Times when we dwelt in far away lands.

But there is always a catch in the back of my throat;
A wish that my thoughts could fully quote
A man whose poem is so finely crafted,
I’m convinced it was never once redrafted.

For it catches by its words in near perfection
The very soundtrack to all this: my reflection.
This particular poem is quiet and mellow;
It was written by a Mr Henry Longfellow.

I write it now for you below
That you may enjoy its beauty also.

“The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains,and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains,and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.”