The untroubled ones, nimble and bold,

Are the very young and the very old.

Teetering brashly, reckless rhyme,

They balance along the edge of time

As if they are always almost late.

They are someone else they impersonate.

They know so much they forget a half,

And what they remember makes them laugh.

The air comes cool on both bare heads,

And both rebel at the waste of beds.

They never record, they simply exist,

The happiest kind of' diarist.

Neither can read the face of' a clock,

And words they say are jabberwock.

The world is a snarl of string to untie.

The world is today to beatify.

The world is whatever is nearest now.

Now is whenever is next somehow.

Now is a rock in the water flung

By the very old and the very young.