by John Vance Cheney
I strive to keep me in the sun;
I pick no quarrel with the years,
Nor with the Fates, not even the one
That holds the shears.
I take occasion by the hand;
I'm not too nice 'twixt weed and flower;
I do not stay to understand;
I take mine hour.
The time is short enough at best.
I push right onward while I may;
I open to the winds my breast,
And walk the way.
A kind heart greets me here and there;
I hide from it my doubts and fears.
I trudge, and say the path is fair
Along the years.
Last updated January 14, 2019