And I’ll have earned the right to rest where folding hills are green;
So in some glassy anchorage I’ll make my cable fast,–
Oh, let the seas show all their teeth, I’ll sit and smile serene.
The storm may bellow round the roof, I’ll bide beside the fire,
And many a scene of sail and trail within the flame I’ll see;
For I’ll have worn away the spur of passion and desire.…
Oh yes, when I am Sixty-five, what peace will come to me.
I’ll take my breakfast in my bed, I’ll rise at half-past ten.
When all the world is nicely groomed and full of golden song;
I’ll smoke a bit and joke a bit, and read the news, and then
I’ll potter round my peach-trees till I hear the luncheon gong.
And after that I think I’ll doze an hour, well, maybe two,
And then I’ll show some kindred soul how well my roses thrive;
I’ll do the things I never yet have found the time to do.…
Oh, won’t I be the busy man when I am Sixty-five.
