On Turning Twenty-Six

Not that I grow old; I mourn the earth
That falls away from stepping-stones I leave,
The day-by-day that sails to silent berths
I grieve.

Not that I have sorrows; where sorrows lie
Under musty bridges, in hollowed trunks,
Crouching behind benches like beaten drunks,
I pass by.

Not that I have much; down tiny halls,
Tinklings of things. Dust from walls.
Something more, perhaps, than passeth show,
I see, I know.

Thomas Clark