I used to think that
growing old
was reckoned just in years,
But who can name the very date
when weariness appears?
I find no stated time when man,
obedient to a law,
Must settle in an
easy chair
and from the world withdraw.
Old Age is rather curious,
or so it seems to me.
I know old men at forty
and young men at seventy-three.
I'm done with
counting life by years
or temples turning gray.
No man is old who wakes with joy
to greet another day.
What if the body cannot dance
with youth's elastic spring?
There's many a
vibrant interest
to which the mind can cling.
'Tis in the spirit Age must dwell,
or this would never be:
I know old men at forty
and young men at seventy-three.
Some men keep all
their friendships warm,
and welcome friendships new,
They have no time to sit and mourn
the things they used to do.
This changing world they greet with joy
and never bow to late;
On every fresh
adventure
they set out with hearts elate
From chilling fear and bitter dread
they keep their spirits free
While some seem old at forty
they stay young at seventy-three.
So much to do, so
much to learn,
so much in which to share!
With twinkling eyes and minds alert
some brave both time and care.
And this I've learned from other men,
that only they are old
Who think with
something that has passed
the tale of life is told.
For Age is not alone of time,
or we should never see
Men old and bent at forty
and men young at seventy-three.
