of our youth nor the extended speech of our fathers,
noble in their causes yet ultimately forgotten.
No! It comes oft too late or too slowly
from the simple passage of time, that fickle friend.
And so I find myself these few days as a man torn
between heaven and hell, limbs attached to a collection
of carriages, growing unintentionally taller each hour.
I cannot deny that I am filled with a great melancholy
that finds root in the inevitable losses humans bear,
but never comprehend 'til faced with a mirror'd countenance
so unlike our own that sadness's nature is revealed.
And yet, am I not blessed with the love of angels
in form not unlike my own?
Do I not yet have my own health and fortune
and the promise of the sun yet returning?
For a man may wish his time astride this earth be easy,
banishing every frowning rain cloud that dares appear.
Is not such a life fraught with the peril of the first snowfall?
Would not one stray flake undo such a man?
'Tis better then to face our troubles and answer
blow for blow when the winds of strife do come our way.