Many are the minds
	Lying idle tonight,
	As winter flows down
	From the rolling mountains.
	I sit among youth--
	Scarcely older than they--
	But I do not
	Feel young at heart.
	As with all who live
	Half-lives, I let life
	Pass me by;
	And tho I said it
	Didn't matter--it did,
	For each silent
	Mote of time
	Dissolved and evaporated
	To vanish without
	A trace, leaving me
	Alone with might-have-beens.
	And even these,
	One by one
	Slip away, as the cells
	And energy of my mind
	Perish and cease
	To be.
	Success is not
	To be measured
	In pounds and ounces,
	Nor in gold or
	Silver, nor words nor
	Any substantial thing.
	No, one's life-worth
	Is immaterial
	And evanescent--elusive,
	Only felt but neve scanned.
	One must leave the world changed--
	Somehow molded and reformed:
	Brightened and understood,
	Bettered and more complete.
	But how?
	How indeed?


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