The Night Before

Alone he sat, when people sleep,
The man with his thoughts that ran so deep,
With no ambition to show for himself,
He looked upon the books on his shelf.

At first he read the one that told,
The tale of a child that once had sold,
His dreams for some promise of gold,
Yet, he got it not, and lived and died not so old.

Then took another, more quaint indeed,
For it spoke of a man who planted a seed,
But never lived to see the fruit,
Yet, he knew his plant had a stronger root.

The third he looked upon with distress,
A man who lived only to impress,
A lady as fair as a rose in a field,
Yet, she saw him not, for he had nothing to yield.

The last, I could not convey,
With mere words what it tried to say,
As it gave a glimpse of what's to come,
To a soul after the loss, and where it came from.

Then at last I read them all,
And I learned of many and many a soul,
On the morrow, if I ever get to wake,
The same mistakes, I shall not make.

I shall not sell my dreams if I might,
Nor plant a seed that'll never see the light,
I shall not love a heart that shuns me no more,
Yet, I feel I have said the same, the night before.