There is a vale I may not ever cross,

Close, close behind me-deep-

And wide- and measured out by years,

By heavy years whose final loss I weep.

Sometimes I can look back and see

The other side, so clear, though far away,

And sometimes memory fails the sight,

But wider grows the gulf each day.

The other side is childhood, and this side

My middle life, from which across the years

That fall between, I yearn toward opportunity

Beyond that gulf's eternal tossing tide.