Poet-Vagabond Grown Old

The dust of many roads has been my grey wine. Surprised beech-trees have bowed With me, to the plodding morning Humming tunes frail as webs of dead perfume, To his love in golden silks, the departed moon. Maidens like rose-flooded statues Have bathed me in the wine of their silence. But now I walk on, alone. And only after watching many evenings, Do I dance a bit with dying wisps of moon-light, To persuade myself that I am young.