Classic Poem

Ah Postumus, my Postumus, the years are slipping by;
Old age with hurrying footsteps draws nearer day by day;
And we will leave this friendly earth and every friendlier tie.

Soon Death, whose strength is never spent, whose sword is always high,
Will beckon us, and all our faith will win us no delay.
Ah Postumus, my Postumus, the years are slipping by.

Grim Pluto waits for all of us; he waits with pitiless eye,
Until we journey down the stream that carries us away;
And we will leave this friendly earth and every friendlier tie.

Though we be kings or worse than slaves, the eager moments fly;
Though we be purer than the gods, Time will not halt or stay—
Ah Postumus, my Postumus, the years are slipping by.

Aye, we must go, though we have shunned the red sun of July,
The bitter winds, the treacherous surf, the blind and savage fray,
And we will leave this friendly earth and every friendlier tie.

Too soon the stubborn hand of Fate tears all our dreams awry;
Too soon the plowman quits his plow, the child his happy play—
Ah Postumus, my Postumus, the years are slipping by,
And we will leave this friendly earth and every friendlier tie.