Thirty-two is like a summer storm
Howling in the heat of windless days:
Impassioned in pursuit of promised treasure,
Raging through fields planted deep with pleasure,
The flood of life unleashed on well-worn ways.
Yet, of course, such tempests are the norm.
There is for now but little listless leisure
When passion is itself of passions shorn,
One pent-up dream in one's ambitious gaze.