How far the gulf-stream of our youth may flow
Into the arctic regions of our lives,
Where little else than life itself survives.
Whatever poet, orator, or sage
May say of it, old age is still old age.
Than youth itself, though in another dress,
And as the evening twilight fades away
The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.
And the bright faces of my young companions
Are wrinkled like my own, or are no more.
The course of my long life hath reached at last,
In fragile bark o'er a tempestuous sea,
The common harbor, where must rendered be,
Account of all the actions of the past.
Age is not all decay; it is the ripening, the swelling, of the fresh life within, that withers and bursts the husk.
What find you better or more honorable than age? *** Take the preeminence of it in everything;—in an old friend, in old wine, in an old pedigree.
When you try to conceal your wrinkles, Polla, with paste made from beans, you deceive yourself, not me. Let a defect, which is possibly but small, appear undisguised. A fault concealed is presumed to be great.
Set is the sun of my years;
And over a few poor ashes,
I sit in my darkness and tears.
Old wood to burn! Old wine to drink! Old friends to trust! Old authors to read!—Alonso of Aragon was wont to say in commendation of age, that age appeared to be best in these four things.
Forward; and forward with them, draw my soul
Into time's infinite sea.
And to be glad, or sad, I care no more;
But to have done, and to have been, before I
cease to do and be.
So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop
Into thy mother's lap, or be with ease
Gather'd, not harshly pluck'd, for death mature.
So Life's year begins and closes;
Days, though short'ning, still can shine;
What though youth gave love and roses,
Age still leaves us friends and wine.
We age inevitably:
The old joys fade and are gone:
And at last comes equanimity and the flame
burning clear.
Thyself no more deceive, thy youth hath fled.
Senex cum extemplo est, jam nee sentit, nee
Ajunt solere eum rursum repuerascere.
When a man reaches the last stage of life,—without senses or mentality—they say that he has grown a child again.
Why will you break the Sabbath of my days?
Now sick alike of Envy and of Praise.
Learn to live well, or fairly make your will;
You've played, and loved, and ate, and drank your fill.
Walk sober off, before a sprighther age
Comes tittering on, and shoves you from the stage.
Me let the tender office long engage
To rock the cradle of reposing age;
With lenient arts extend a mother's breath,
Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death;
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye!
And keep awhile one parent from the sky.
His leaf also shall not wither.
The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.
So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.
Das Alter ist nicht trübe weil darin unsere Freuden, sondern weil unsere Hoffnungen aufhören.
What makes old age so sad is, not that our joys but that our hopes cease.
