wb :

alas, you loved too little, loved too late
when you in youth decided to grow old
and let your books to you your life dictate

regret it now! regretfully behold
no passion's roots, no roses' blooms; instead
gaunt spines of autumn, plumed in red and gold

and winter's angry gale of cold and dead;
your studious slavish sacrific intent
to sell your heart, so you might raise your head

too late to rage for years now gone and went
too late to rue, oh you disconsolate
who spent his youth, and now with spirit spent

lament then not, who rode with pride and hate-
alas, you loved too little, loved too late.

Labels: poetry