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.