Only the old are grateful. Not the young,
Who snatch their present like wild birds that feed
In winter; thankless, bear it off. Among
Those avid mutes, sometimes the wounded cede
Some gratitude, for they are old too soon.
Not so the-strong-winged ones, whose jewel-like eyes
Glitter with instant fame, perpetual noon;
Who lavish on themselves a lifetime’s prize.
Yet see them now as what they are - in flight
From childhood, eager, frightened, soaring off
To lonely falls, travail with traps, and night
Ambuscades. Those cygnets, swanned by grief,
Will be so grateful, it will frighten you,
Remembering yourself as thankless too.