How old is my heart, how old, how old is my heart, <br />and did I ever go forth with song when the morn was new? <br />I seem to have trod on many ways: I seem to have left <br />I know not how many homes; and to leave each <br />was still to leave a portion of mine own heart, <br />of my old heart whose life I had spent to make that home <br />and all I had was regret, and a memory. <br /> <br />So I sit and muse in this wayside harbour and wait <br />till I hear the gathering cry of the ancient winds and again <br />I must up and out and leave the members of the hearth <br />to crumble silently into white ash and dust, <br />and see the road stretch bare and pale before me: again <br />my garment and my house shall be the enveloping winds <br />and my heart be fill'd wholly with their old pitiless cry.<br /><br />Christopher John Brennan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/how-old-is-my-heart-how-old/
