* * * * *
Whatever poet, orator, or sage
May say of it, old age is still old age.
It is the waning, not the crescent, moon,
The dusk of evening, not the blaze of noon.
It is not strength but weakness, not desire
But its surcease, not the fierce heat of fire,
The burning and consuming element,
But that of ashes and of embers spent.
In which some living sparks we still discern,