A Poem for That Good Night

Given to me on a hill by Dylan Thomas's father. 


I remember the morning-
it did not seem long ago,
when all my life were simple things,
that melt like passing snow.

I was rich in the morning,
they laid treasures in my lap;
Days and weeks and laughter:
All that mortals have.

I spend my riches quickly,
they slip through my hands like smoke;
the money you can never earn,
the currency of hope.

Because my day was never mine to choose,
nor my birth by my desire,
I will thank the one who gave me life,
I know He will raise me higher.

A gift, this little passing life,
not mine to hoard or waste,
I must hold aloft my prize
until I see His face.

And you of little faith; my heart,
may bless, curse, even rage;
but know that he who gives the hour
has overcome the age.