The Middle

I came across this poem four or five years ago.  It was cited in a letter to the editor of Modern Maturity Magazine.  The writer couldn't remember the poet who wrote the poem.

               When I remember bygone days
               I think how evening follows morn:
               So many I loved were not yet dead,
               So many I love were not yet born.

I thought of my dad who had  been dead for many years and I thought of my grandchildren who had not been born.  I copied the poem into my journal of bits and pieces that I want to carry with me when I am old and feeble and carted off to a nursing home.

Last year I was browsing at our local used book store and found a set of books by Ogden Nash.  Since I came across his first poem when I was in grade school I have enjoyed his humor.  I bought four of the books.  And on page 160 of Versus I found this same poem, this time with a title, The Middle.  One of the reasons I enjoy Ogden Nash's poems is that they have a bit of truth to them, even the funny ones which were the only ones I had ever read  before coming across this one.