Aged Thirty-Five
Behold me Grossi, aged thirty-five,
With my wild oats at last completely sown,
And on my head some strands of silver strown,
To temper the few follies that survive.
At a less stormy age I now arrive,
Half prose half poetry—to thought now prone,
And now to sober mirth. In part alone
'Twill pass, in part amid the human hive.
So downward, at this pace habitual grown,
Still humouring the crowd with jest and brag,
Till death shall come to still each noisy tone.
Too happy if the long and weary fag
Of life's high road have earned my grave a stone
With the inscription, “Faithful to his Flag.”
With my wild oats at last completely sown,
And on my head some strands of silver strown,
To temper the few follies that survive.
At a less stormy age I now arrive,
Half prose half poetry—to thought now prone,
And now to sober mirth. In part alone
'Twill pass, in part amid the human hive.
So downward, at this pace habitual grown,
Still humouring the crowd with jest and brag,
Till death shall come to still each noisy tone.
Too happy if the long and weary fag
Of life's high road have earned my grave a stone
With the inscription, “Faithful to his Flag.”
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