We live so swiftly, one and all,
That ere our day be fairly noon,
The shadows eastward seem to fall.
Some tender light may gild them yet,
As yet, ’tis not so very cold,
And, on the whole, I won’t regret
My slender chance of growing old.
W. J. Prowse (1836-1870) (My Lost Old Age).
Prowse wrote excellent verses before he was 20 and he died at 34.