Old man’s autumn rested in the garden bright,

Beside the hopeful pool that cast away the night.

Alone he laid his plans, his dreams he dared to speak,

Beneath the sleepy twilight, below the mountains deep.

 

 

He pondered then the words, the tale he’d come to tell,

The wind did blow his thoughts across the trembling well.

Rising from the field, a fire did draw him near,

Calling as he lay, his thoughts that were far from there.

 

 

He pointed to the rising, to things no one else could see,

Brooding on the horizon, some place he longed to be.

But the frontier seemed the further, than the fields that he did know,

And yet in other ways, seemed a place that he must go.

 

 

He gathered there his courage, in the chill of coming dusk,

Weeping o’er the well, for thoughts too vague to trust.

But in his rising upward, the boy who desired a life,

Heard a curious song from flute or magic pipe.

 

 

There arose a dream, a moonstruck melody,

That charmed the bitter cold of night and looked so he could see.

Drifting by he gazed upon fields that swept him home,

Too many voices calling, to roads he had yet roamed.