Classic Poem

His sixtieth harvest-tide is done,
Nay more, yet by his own confession,
Of all his days no single one
Was lost by fever's fell oppression.

At Dason, Alcon, Symmachus,
He points a gay and mocking finger;
Ah, friend, 'tis different with us,
Though long our life may seem to linger.

Fever and weariness and pain —
Of many days have these bereft us;
Leave these unreckoned, few remain,
And little of real life is left us.

Aye, we are babes of tender age —
To count by years is idle dreaming —
The Trojan king, the Pylian sage,
Were only old to outward seeming.

The blunderer who deems them so,
Misreckons life and much mistakes it,
He thinks 'tis drawing breath — we know
'Tis health alone that mars or makes it.