Old age doth in sharp pains abound;
We are belabored by the gout,
Our blindness is a dark profound,
Our deafness each one laughs about.
Then reason's light with falling ray
Doth but a trembling flicker cast.
Honor to age, ye children pay!
Alas! my fifty years are past!
What is the worst of woes that wait on age?
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow?
To view each loved one blotted from life's page,
And be alone on earth as I am now.
He has grown aged in this world of woe,
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life.
So that no wonder waits him.
* * * Years steal
Fire from the mind, as vigor from the limb;
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandolo,
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe!
Just as old age is creeping on apace,
And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day,
They kindly leave us, though not quite alone,
But in good company—the gout or stone.
My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!
For oute of olde feldys, as men sey,
Comyth al this newe corn from yere to yere;
And out of olde bokis, in good fey,
Comyth al this newe science that men lere.
Mature fieri senem, si diu velis esse senex.
You must become an old man in good time
if you wish to be an old man long.
The spring, like youth, fresh blossoms doth produce,
But autumn makes them ripe and fit for use:
So Age a mature mellowness doth set
On the green promises of youthful heat.
His eye was not dim, nor his natural force abated.
Youth is a blunder; Manhood a struggle; Old Age a regret.
The Disappointment of Manhood succeeds to the delusion of Youth; let us hope that the heritage of Old Age is not Despair.
No Spring nor Summer Beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one Autumnal face.
Fate seem’d to wind him up for fourscore years;
Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more;
Till like a clock worn put with eating time,
The wheels of weary life at last stood still.
His hair just grizzled
As in a green old age.
Nature abhors the old.
Remote from cities liv’d a Swain,
Unvex’d with all the cares of gain;
His head was silver’d o’er with age,
And long experience made him sage.
