.
I stand no longer so inclined,
Whippet thin against the wind,
Thwarting winter’s slated blast,
With no succor save my skin.
It is for those of fewer years,
To call dark shades out on the field.
And there contest with might and mind
Until the villain’s forces yield.
To such clashes, high and fierce,
Upon my youth, I did aspire.
But now my passions wind their way
To comforts calm, by evening fire.
Grazing on the grate of life,
The memories of flame do dash.
Work alchemy of sweet repose,
Weave blankets soft from oak to ash.
.
