WE are poor spendthrifts, scattering gold youth Moment by moment to the winds of time; Reckless because today it buys us trifles— Dross of the smiling and approving world— Words and laughter, and a sheer veil of pretense So threadbare that we tear it in our hands Trying to wear it, hoping to hide our faces Newly and deeply scarred... We are poor spend-thrifts, Buying nothing of worth in our ignorance. We shall emerge at length, and curse this day, And curse ourselves with intolerable words, Because we fought and were not conquered; because Our courage, thin and tried, yet did not break, But held against all hope... I say we are mad To scatter the substance of our golden days, And to go undefeated into the dark, Crying at pain—wretched, and old, and tired With terrible triumph over our hope and dream. |