When I have seen the all that this world holds,
And plumbed its lowest depths and climbed its heights,
Have done its weary work and waged its fights;
When my old age its yellowed page unfolds–
What will my conscience say? There are two molds
That fit us all: one kind prefers the lights
Of cities gay; the other has its sights
Moved up so high it all diversion scolds.
Shall I, then, spend my last days deeply pained
Because of frolics missed for higher things;
Or rather shall I curse those pleasures gained
That cost one more potential saint his wings?
Still–I may be that rarity well-met:
One living out his days without regret.
by Ray Romine Tuesday, August 7, 1945
