Now in my grey-haired heart,
Flows the blood of seasons past.

Those pastoral beats, that once surged
In a sea of windmill leaves.

My haygold, harvest days, warmed
My cockles; all splashed in sun.

There was no chill that gripped and snapped,
When winter laced my hills in white.

Those new life days that bloomed,
Under the trees of springing light.

When I was young...not dying of time.

Ian Bowen

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dying-of-time/