To The Daughter Of A Stranger On The Eve Of Her Fourteenth Birthday
Like the last day of your fourteenth year which freaks your mother somewhat out
So the last days of your youth — only not so clear defined
An annoying creeping worry of which you are sure you’d rather doubt
Than hear; it combs for clues anon with but the finely toothed kind
But surely you have worlds enough and time, this must needs be premature
Come now, you don’t need to think of your time as flying by just yet
Kicking around on a piece of ground is of course still — de rigueur
(Though your Sugar Mountain lacks no first to meet those People that you met)
If from a weird old twitter lady you would accept opinions sometime rank
One who knows she knows you not, who only saw your likeness then and now
Comes counsel that you of yourself keep record— your Diaries money in the bank
Not so much of where or when or who; the Future wonders why and how
To remind your now these questions I your mother’s ear & yours have bent
I leave to you the disposition of your own To-What-Extent
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