PREV / NEXT

On Growing Old

Growing old—did you say?

Well, if years must be told,

I suppose one is old;

For this surely is gray

That as surely was gold,

And one's years in the sun

Grow fewer to run;

Where you dream, I have done,

Where you fight, I have won—

If that's to be old.

But, is this to be old?

To love like a boy,

To drink all the joy

Of the green and the blue

Of the earth, like a toy

Made of wonder and dew;

To taste all things new,

As the newest of moons,

As the latest of tunes,

As the brightest of spoons;

To find all things magic—

Laughing or tragic—

All marvel and mirth,

Nothing else on the earth—

Nothing common or stale;

Life all nightingale,

All rainbow and rose,

All song and no prose;

All dreaming of dreams,

And running of streams;

And death a new star

Drawing near from afar—

Is that to be old?