There is always a possible pathway,
Until our hair turns gray,
By which the dreams of our golden youth
May really come some day,
And there’s always room for a fairy foot
To flutter our own beside,
And wish-horses, supple and strong enough
To give our hopes a ride.
There is always a possible pathway
Until our hair is gray,
By which our tardy heart’s desire
Shall sometime find its way.
There is always a certain pathway
By which, when our hair is gray,
We may slip along into silence,
And never miss the way.
And the dreams we dreamed, and the fame we missed,
And the love that we never won,
May be gathered there, to welcome us,
When at last the journey’s done.
Agnes L. Storrie. Poems, J. W. Kettlewell, Sydney, 1909, page 22