I shall not mind
the whiteness of my hair,
or that slow steps
falter on the stair,
or what strange image
greets me in the glass...
if I can feel,
as roots feel in the sod,
that I am growing old to bloom
before the face of God.
the whiteness of my hair,
or that slow steps
falter on the stair,
or what strange image
greets me in the glass...
if I can feel,
as roots feel in the sod,
that I am growing old to bloom
before the face of God.
http://www.scrapbook.com/poems/doc/10831/221.html
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