et in arcadia ego

each memory that comes when i must write
takes me to places that are now far away
the journeys to them take up a whole day
or else you have to fly there overnight
and spend long hours in that one single flight
with memory to sustain you on the way
remembering the sun setting in the bay
or else the odd milkiness of sky at night
nothing here till now could mean as much
as what things did when all of life was young
but what i have is what i've earned so far
still in my memory i find the ready touch
of all old hopes and words trip off the tongue
while in the east there rises a new star