Sonnet 18

Our time to parade the streets is too short,
To weep and wail for missed chances of old,
And mourn the pass of stories never told.
To sleep and fail to claim much joy in thoughts,
Is a fight for joy not so gladly fought. 
If for a warm future we dwell in cold,
We are insane, a concept poorly sold,
Hence ill advised and then a cold is caught. 
When comes the day our fire is golden embers,
So the trees sink to the earth whence they came, 
We crave beauty in youth which one remembers,
Without it youth was quenched a crying shame. 
Our works and fears render our passions tamed,
Best play unsafe playing this helpless game.