All my futures
Lie heaped upon this hour,
I may not turn at will
For this unfavoured power,
What breath may tip the scales
What long-forgotten word
May turn the certain cause
To my uncertain loss.

My hopes are brittle glass,
My fears are deadly palls
That seek to suffocate
My mind behind their walls,
I may not count the cost
‘Til years have past me fled,
Like dreams I left undreamed,
And lives I never led.

David Lewis Paget