At Sixteen

This is a poem that I someday will
   write
This hour soft-poised upon the brim
   of night.
But now its loveliness cannot be
   told
The voice too heavy and the words too
   bold....
Until someday when I am very
   Old
And Beauty cannot tremble in my
   breast
I shall find words for what
   is now unrest
And write and write and write in
   ancient glee
Of sounds I cannot hear, and sights
   I cannot see.

- Berenice De Luca Palmer