I Write Poetry

There's an old Cypress tree,
Guarding a crystal brook.
Faust and Achilles met me there,
In my ancient youth.

Not as much a year ago,
I stood there like before.
Visiting with the memories,
Of the hills since traversed.

Manhood, I impatiently desired,
To war, to love, to fly.
Youthful eyes blind.
To the Good Old Days.

Patrick