Do old men have dreams and plans and schemes,
Or are we old when we give them up?
Do we taste life to its full measure,
Or sip our drink from a bittered cup?
Do we still hope or can we not cope
With all that time has wrought upon us?
Are these precious things just out of reach
Or husks of dreams still carried behind us?
The path my feet have daily followed,
That leads one day to the end of things,
Still full of life and more tomorrows,
Has no more room for any dead dreams.