Classic Poem

As riper years approach us,
Whiffs of infancy appear;
In mere sparkles of the sunshine,
Glimpses, come of other years.

In the fanning of soft breezes,
Or the sun's ray on the snow,
Oft a transient flash comes o'er us,
Flickering scenes from long ago.

A strange flash, yet half familiar,
That our infant brain once knew,
Now pushed back, by riper knowledge,
Oft they flash, with infant hue.