Classic Poem

Spare whitened hair, a withered cheek,
A trembling voice, a fireless eye, —
Do these show Age's victory?

I deem it truer that the man,
Whose frame is now more fragile grown,
Is younger than the child new-born.

For he who enters life's long road
Is old with duties yet to be
And white with long expectancy;

Yet as the years roll slowly by,
As dross that leaves the vessel bright,
His duties fall away. The light

Of freer manhood makes him young
And younger, till, those duties past,
He stands in perfect youth at last.

Thus grow we younger toward the grave,
That finds us in our fulness free,
And on the brink of which we see

Close 'round us some such light as shone
On Man and Nature's virgin dawn,
Grey years ago, ere Sin was born.