Think not how far we have to go,
how far weíve come; it saps the strength,
melts the will. Itís better not to know
the breadth and height and length
of all thatís still ahead.
Who wants to learn oneís end?
What will be, what would have been - weigh like lead.
Past offenses change not, cannot mend.
Better to proceed by little steps
within your range; no sweat, regret, no strain;
blanking out dramatic heights and depths
the thought of chasms, rough terrain.
Time then to see Godís downward bending
to share the journey and the ending.
Poems from the Eighth Decade
Copyright © Harold Macdonald 2004 used with permission
Harold Macdonald Poetry
Ashes to Easter