The Old Age of Nostalgia

Mark Strand

Those hours given over to basking in the glow of an imagined

future, of being carried away in streams of promise by a love or

a passion so strong that one felt altered forever and convinced

that even the smallest particle of the surrounding world was

charged with purpose of impossible grandeur; ah, yes, and

one would look up into the trees and be thrilled by the wind-

loosened river of pale, gold foliage cascading down and by the

high, melodious singing of countless birds; those moments, so

many and so long ago, still come back, but briefly, like fireflies

in the perfumed heat of summer night.