The day has come; the march is played;
They take the walk in robes arrayed.
They slowly step while tassels swing,
And proudly wear their senior rings.
It is an army marching out,
To find what life is all about,
Against a seasoned foe, the world,
Their novice ranks against it hurled.
Unlike the nest they leave forthwith,
The world’s been hammered hard by smith.
And oft, one finds its face a stone
That one confronts when he’s alone.
Love softened that fled feathered nest,
But true love hardens for the test.
The fledgling flight cannot be weak
Because life’s weather can be bleak.
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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015
The Bard on the Hill 
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