(The child is father of the man: Wm Wordsworth)
If I look at some old picture with sentimental
yearning, to retrace steps taken long ago,
of those enchanted walks among the hills,
I recall that at that time I was dreaming - oh!
how unknown the future then, where it beckoned,
inscrutable, the sky’s cloud metaphors,
now easily interpreted in clarity of event,
I find I yearn for the inexperience of those hours.
Perhaps, it is age’s reappraisal of its youth,
like those lusty songs from Romberg’s Student Prince
about seizing youth while we may, whose truth
then we could not know, become escape calls since.
For youth was never a time of freedom and of joy,
that came later; my father was indeed the boy.