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Show OLD AGE. My days pass pleasantly away. My nights are blessed with sweetest sleep, I- feel no symptoms of decay, 1 have no cause to mourn or weep. My foes are Impotent and shy. My friends are neither false nor cold. And yet of late I often sigh, "I'm growing old." My growing talk of olden times. My growing thirst for early news. Mv growing apathy to rhymes. My- growing love of eauy shoos, Mv growing hate of crowds and noise, Mv crowing fear of taking cold-All cold-All "whisner. In the plainest voice, "I'm growing old." I'm growing fonder of my staff, I'm growing dimmer In the eyes, I'm growing fainter in my laugh. I'm growing det-per in my slshs. I'm growing careless of my drera. I'm growing .frugal with my gold. I'm growing wise. I'm growing yes, "I'm growing old." Thnnks for the years whose rapid flight My somber mup too gladly sings! Thanks for the gleams of golden light That tint the darkness of their wings The llpht that beams from out the sky Those heavenlv mansions to unfold. Where all are blest, and none may sigh, "I'm growing old." . John Godfrey Sax. . i . . |