Classic Poem

When that my days were fewer,
—Some twenty years ago,
And all that is was newer,
—And time itself seemed slow,
With ardor all impassioned,
—I let my hopes fly free,
And deemed the world was fashioned
—My playing-field to be.

The cup of joy was filled then
—With Fancy's sparkling wine;
And all the things I willed then
—Seemed destined to be mine.
Friends had I then in plenty,
—And every friend was true;
Friends always are at twenty,
—And on to twenty-two.

The men whose hair was sprinkled
—With little flecks of gray,
Whose faded brows were wrinkled—
—Sure they had had their day.
And though we bore no malice,
—We knew their hearts were cold,
For they had drained their chalice,
—And now were spent and old.

At thirty, we admitted,
—A man may be alive,
But slower, feebler witted;
—And done at thirty-five.
If Fate prolongs his earth-days,
—His joys grow fewer still;
And after five more birthdays
—He totters down the hill.

We were the true immortals
—Who held the earth in fee;
For us were flung the portals
—Of fame and victory.
The days were bright and breezy,
—And gay our banners flew,
And every peak was easy
—To scale at twenty-two.

And thus we spent our gay time
—As having much to spend;
Swift, swift, that pretty playtime
—Flew by and had its end.
And lo! without a warning
—I woke, as others do,
One fine mid-winter morning,
—A man of forty-two.

And now I see how vainly
—Is youth with ardor fired;
How fondly, how insanely
—I formerly aspired.
A boy may still detest age,
—But as for me I know,
A man has reached his best age
—At forty-two or so.

For youth it is the season
—Of restlessness and strife;
Of passion and unreason,
—And ignorance of life.
Since, though his cheeks have roses,
—No boy can understand
That everything he knows is
—A graft at second hand.

But we have toiled and wandered
—With weary feet and numb;
Have doubted, sifted, pondered,—
—How else should knowledge come?
Have seen, too late for heeding,
—Our hopes go out in tears,
Lost in the dim receding,
—Irrevocable years.

Yet, though with busy fingers
—No more we wreathe the flowers,
An airy perfume lingers,
—A brightness still is ours.
And though no rose our cheeks have,
—The sky still shines as blue;
And still the distant peaks have
—The glow of twenty-two.