OLD age is gentle as an autumn morn;

The harvest over, you will put the plough

Into another, stronger hand, and watch

The sowing you were wont to do.

Old age

Is like an alabaster room, with soft

White curtains. All is light, but light so mild,

So quiet, that it cannot hurt.

The pangs

Are hushed, for life is wild no more with strife,

Nor breathless uphill work, nor heavy with

The brewing tempests, which have torn away

So much, that nothing more remains to fear.

What once was hope, is gone. You know. You saw

The worst, and not a sigh is left of all

The heavy sighs that tore your heart, and not

A tear of all those tears that burnt your cheeks,

And ploughed the furrows into them.

You see

How others work again and weep again,

And hope and fear. Thy alabaster room

With marble floor and dainty hangings has

A look so still, that others wonder why

They feel it churchlike. All thy life is here;

Thy life hath built the vault and paved it, and

Thy hands have woven yonder curtains that

Surround thy seat, a shady sunshine.

Age

Is feeble not to thee, as all thy wishes

Are silent and demand no effort. Age

Is kind to thee, allows thee all the rest

That never came, when life was hard and toilsome.

Receive it with a smile and clothe thyself

In white, in Nature's silver crown, and sing

A lullaby of promise and of comfort.

Tell them that life is precious, after work,

And after grief and after all the deaths,

And not a loathsome burden of a life.

Old age is like a room of alabaster,

The curtains silken; thou art priest and Druid!

No mystery for thee, but Light from heaven!