Alpena Argus

ALPENA ARGUS
MISCELLANEOUS
GROWING OLD.
The fairest lilies droop at eventide,
The sweetest roses fall from off the stem;
The rarest things on earth cannot abide,
And we are passing, too, away like them;
We're growing old.
We had our dreams, those rosy dreams of youth;
They faded, and 'twas well. This after prime
Hath brought us fuller hopes; and yet forsooth,
We drop a tear now in this later time
To think we're old.
We smile at those poor fancies of the past
A saddened smile, almost akin to pain;
Those high desires, those purposes so vast,
Ah, our poor hearts! they cannot come again;
We're growing old.
Old! Well, the heavens are old; this earth is too
Old wine is best, maturest fruit most sweet;
Much have we lost more gained, although 'tis true
We tread life's way with most uncertain feet.
We're growing old.
We move along and scatter as we pace,
Soft glances, tender hopes on every hand;
At last, with gray-streaked hair and hollow face.
We step across the boundary of the land
Where none are old.