POEMS
Those whose poor morning heads are touched with rime,
Walking before their misery like kings.
I did not think that I should feel such stings,
Nor flinch beneath such arrows. But now I know.
One day I shall be stupid and rather slow,
And easily cowed and troubled in my mind,
And tremulous, vaguely frightened, feeble and cold,
I am growing old. . . . My God! how old, how old! . . .
I dare not tell them, but one day they will know. . . .
I hope they will be kind.
Walking before their misery like kings.
I did not think that I should feel such stings,
Nor flinch beneath such arrows. But now I know.
One day I shall be stupid and rather slow,
And easily cowed and troubled in my mind,
And tremulous, vaguely frightened, feeble and cold,
I am growing old. . . . My God! how old, how old! . . .
I dare not tell them, but one day they will know. . . .
I hope they will be kind.
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