At the noisy end of the cafe, head bent over the table, an old man sits alone, a newspaper in front of him. And in the miserable banality of old age he thinks how little he enjoyed the years when he had strength, eloquence, and looks. He knows he's aged a...
What is it to grow old? Is it to lose the glory of the form, The lustre of the eye? Is it for beauty to forego her wreath? Yes, but not for this alone. Is it to feel our strength - Not our bloom only, but our strength -decay? Is it to...
Read MoreO world! O Life! O Time! On whose last steps I climb, Trembling at that where I had stood before; When will return the glory of your prime? No more—oh, never more! Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight: Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar Move my faint...
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