Præmaturi

When men are old, and their friends die,

They are not so sad,

Because their love is running slow,

And cannot spring from the wound with so sharp a pain;

And they are happy with many memories,

And only a little while to be alone.

But we are young, and our friends are dead

Suddenly, and our quick love is torn in two;

So our memories are only hopes that came to nothing.

We are left alone like old men; we should be dead

But there are years and years in which we will still be young.

Source: Margaret Postgate's Poems (1918)