Those hours given over to basking in the glow of an imagined future,
of being carried away in streams of promise by love or a passion
so strong that one felt altered forever and convinced that even
the smallest particle of the surrounding world was charged with
purpose of impossible grandeur; ah, yes, and one would look up
into the trees and be thrilled by the wind-loosened river of pale,
gold foliage cascading down and by the high, melodious singing of
countless birds; those moments, so many and so long ago, still
come back, but briefly, like fireflies in the perfume heat of
summer night.