Too Late

by Lila Broadhurst

Too Late now my friend to look over your shoulder,
The hay in the meadow is reaped;
And the little white lamb that was frisky in spring
Is matured to an old eyed sheep.

Where were you when the sunsets were splendid,
And the sun shone warmly on golden corn,
When the berry hung heavy in ripe profusion,
And shrouded in blossom was the sturdy hawthorn? 

And why did you ne'er take yourself to the meadows
When they rippled with grasses and blossomy flowers,
Or stroll o'er the moors 'mongst the caps of blue heather,
Or climb o'er the crags like sentinel towers?

You considered more urgent your plan for success,
Struck out with a zeal to accomplish the prize,
Gazing now at the world from your ivory tower
Everything that you worked for at last realized.

Too late now my friend to look for that pathway
That leads to those beauteous places of youth,
You cannot go back, o'er grown is the track,
As time on has flown to bitterest truth.

And time like a warrior mocks mere man,
And stints on doling out each his span,
Though mellowed with wisdom, you can't turn the tide,
The true jewels of life, you yourself have denied.