The Formative Years Poem by Lewis Dowell, III

In olden days when the banks were full
And the gulfs caressed a gilded moon,
The harvest of the sands would play a tune,
The keepers of the village
Would move in quick apace,
As the crisp breeze would uplift
And drift broken leaves-

In olden days when the sky was blue
The gems of heaven would fall
Like gentle manna, the gift from the gods-
The oceans would placate the nerves of men
And the whispers of the ancients would smother the passions-
Those were the days when life was new
A continual existence of all time-