By Fern Hill

Stored up in the brimming caverns of my heart
is an innocent plead that once I made.

Solitary, on my back in the whispering mid-afternoon grass
I let the spring winds caress and bless me.

There the perfume of my sacrifice rose, amply laden
with hope, to forgo the fires of youth in quest of truth.

Stipulating little, I knew only a vague shape would await me:
redolent with kindness and a heart that burned.

I bring it forth now to abate my lonesome sorrow,
a traveler reminiscing their first steps, though still far from
  the end.