ON GROWING OLD

Timaru Herald, Volume CXXV, Issue 18629, 26 July 1930, Page 9

ON GROWING OLD

Be with me Beauty for the fire is dying. My dog and I are old, too old for roving, Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying Is soon too lame to march, too cold for loving. I take the book and gather to the fire, Turning old yellow leaves; minute by minute, The clock ticks to my heart; a withered wire Moves a thin ghost of music in the spinet. I cannot sail your seas, I cannot wander, Your cornland, nor your hill-land nor your valleys. Ever again, nor -hare the battle yonder Where the young knight the broken squadron rallies. Only stay quiet while my mind remembers The beautj' of fire from the beauty of embers Beauty, have pity, for the strong have power, The rich their wealth, the beautiful their grace. Summer of man its sunlight and its flower Spring time of man all April in a face. Only, as in the jostling in the Strand, Where the mob thrusts or loiters or is loud The beggar with the saucer in his hand Asks only a penny from the passing crowd. So, from this glittering world with, all its fashion, Its fire and play of men, its stir, its .march, Let me have wisdom. Beauty, , widsom and passion, Bread to the soul, rain where the summers parch. ' Give me but these, and though the ,darkness close, Even the night will blossom as the rose. —John Masefield.