How often, to hear wisdoms of the wise,
Of they who live without the fear of love:
That bread is not for breaking, and that wine
Is only worth the price that one could give.
They, for whom a bridge is peril’s stairway,
Seldom see you from the other side:
For whom the travel’s treacherous and wary,
“The best of luck” is such a mournful sound.
They, for whom a sunset only wanes,
Never see how bright the gold can last.
They see long shadows in a woodland’s ways,
Fear all who dream of forests end up lost.
There are worse things, I hope, than forest lanes:
Sunlight shimmering past dreamy eyes
While dappled sunspots dance, and evening fades.
I hope there’s worse to fear in life, than this.