A foolish boy of seventeen

Who could not see all right,

Because he'd learned to fill with dreams

His eyes instead of light.

Never was he in any moment present,

Nor read could he the motion of time.

He could not see in front of him

Only ahead a couple hundred miles.

The problem was in everything.

On looking at the girl he liked

At once envisioned he, his queen,

Absent crown or kingdom by his side.

Though he could see a far future

Where he had all of it for her and more,

And not the simple chance before him

At untold happiness absent gold.

The thing about the future is

It's not one but many

And even if he could find it

He wouldn't see any.

But rode he the next moment

To what he could see ahead,

a couple hundred miles

And left the girl behind him waiting

To forget him with time.

The problem is a sweet emotion

With which men measure a secret pride,

Born of nothing but humble devotion

A curse of folly, time and tide.