Called Home.

From his bed, dying and dazed,

the old man hears them in the street,

children, earnestly playing,

madly shouting as they run,

as he ran mad, yesterday,

a little robust warrior,

so shamelessly alive

and so outrageously wealthy,

owning lots and lots of tomorrows,

long days beyond number

for yet more raucous play,

with ages and ages left

before that final dusk descends,

that natural summons
to all playfellows,

calling them home.