CXCIII

When I will drive the district of my home

by morn or eve, or by the light of day;

when flowers flourish round me while I roam

by houses I have lived and loved to stay;

when old familiar birds rehearse their tunes

in ancient trees much older than am I;

when billboards I have known rehearse their runes

long past their usefulness as I pass by;

it’s then I wonder at the age of man,

what were the sights like these of long ago?

While I drive down the streets a city planned,

what were the homely things another’d know?

Time’s scythe cuts through all ages like a lard,

and knowing what was good before is hard.