When in your thirtieth year you see

This photograph they say is me,

Attached thereto the hands and arms,

The vulnerability to harms,

The large anxieties, though quiet,

The small perplexities run riot,

The funny clothes that make you laugh

At Father in a photograph-

Remember, first-beloved son,

Of many fathers, I was one

Who wore his collars thus, and smiled,

Though inwardly unreconciled.

Remember I was thirty then

For one whole year and not again.

Remember that the world I knew,

Though backward it may be to you,

Had weather, women, war and trouble,

Not one by one, but always double;

And quips and cranks and wanton wiles

And sack-suits in the latest styles.

Then if you fail to understand

The photograph you have in hand,

Relax and laugh. Do both, or neither.

I couldn't understand it, either.