OLD age is gentle as an autumn morn;

O

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

{5}

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.

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