When in lost youth smelled astronaut glories
From stick-on skies, aviator stories
Filled empty hours adding noise
Pretending these much more than toys.
More real, then, no glowing sorrow:
Of all that, “What will you be tomorrow?”
When you grow up, grow tired
Of such delights finding life mired,
Yourself possessed. For whose sake
Those games, those laughs, now fake
Reminders that haunt his daydreams
As he slips from recounting endless reams.
Pastoral of middle age or floating sights
Caught up in that enslumbered head:
What lives on in these late, drifting flights
But dreams once thought laid to bed?