IN PRAISE OF AGE
Shall I complain that autumn leaves wing down
Bright, songless birds to rot upon the earth,
That spoiling frosts the fruit in orchards brown,
That gone is halcyonic August mirth!
Shall I lament hours and the crippling years
Whose passage snows my hair and slows my feet
Or rebel with rage and anguished fears
To hear the dreadful drummer's nearing beat?
The pleasures of a narrowed world now play
A song diminished, yet more tuned to truth,
Richer in timbre, more courageous, gay,
Than any which re-echoes from my youth.
As toward coffin-hold my body goes
So toward complete grace, my spirit grows.
previous page
