When I am old and dry
And can scarcely move,
Bent of back and knotted of joint,
Sitting and setting and hardly rocking,
Detached from all but strands of dreams
Remembered down the long tunnel of time.
Then will I pour out
The ripe poems of passiion
That I seeded and stored
But could not speak
In the years
When my bones were strong and supple,
When my skin ached with longing,
When my blood dashed against my veins,
But my training held me back.