By some grace of fate we sit
Quietly, talking of life;
We, at this place where roads meet.
Where worried travelers
Ask “whither?” and “whence?”

Is your sense renewed at this meeting?
And do you see in my face
The stern advance of age? Detect
In my voice a mortal despair?

I have looked at you and seen
The child in red shoes
Who studied with knitted brow
Her *****, wounded finger.

I have seen the girl who ran
Unsteadily like a colt
On slender legs; who laughed
At Time as though
Years bear gifts for children.

And as we trudged
By different paths toward this place,
I have never looked back
With as much longing
As I do today.