Lines at 77
I
Who dares to carp at 77?
One says, with voice of gloom:
“He ought to make his peace with Heaven
And meditate his tomb.
“'Tis unbecoming he should laugh,
Pretending to be jolly,
He ought to choose his epitaph
Self-conscious, melancholy.
“The more his years the more his sins—
Interminable list:
The might-have-dones, the might-have-beens
(Were any lips unkissed?)
“How small his leisure to repent!
His future's just before him:
His past, so palpably misspent,
Must cast its shadow o'er him.
“Then let him of the trembling hand,
Th' uncertain step and wary,
Cease cumbering the patient land
And seek a monastery.”
II
Ah, critic, of the look severe,
'Tis we you gently spurn
Who lead the phalanx, year to year
(Where you shall have your turn).
Have patience with us if we show
None with your stale convention;
We find that life has zest not woe
With every year's extension.
How many friends are gone! The ways
And fashions of their time
To us are like strange roundelays
Rung by a distant chime.
Out of the past we glean the grain
And count the tares forgot.
Our sins would surely be a bane
If we ignored them not.
Each year of beauty adds a store
To all the cherished treasure,
And by the Past's delightful lore
We take the Future's measure.
Our friends may pass, but never fade;
They live when one remembers,
As do the fires by lovers made
Within the sacred embers.
No friendship drives another out,
We still may seek and find
New comrades—old or young—to flout
Black Care and soothe the mind.
To love one's neighbor as one's self
Is still the great command;
We know not Ghibelline or Guelf
In this inclusive band.
Though you proclaim it moribund
Our life is more abundant,
And Age you timidly have shunned
Is full of joys redundant.
We look upon the changing creeds
With tolerance paternal,
Sure that Life's errors in its needs
Will find a cure eternal.
We'll save from chaos something still
By dint of gentle living.
In the religion of good-will
The best delight is giving.
And if some lips must go unkissed
(I own the fault is weighty),
The few that 77 has missed
May well be left to 80.
Who dares to carp at 77?
One says, with voice of gloom:
“He ought to make his peace with Heaven
And meditate his tomb.
“'Tis unbecoming he should laugh,
Pretending to be jolly,
He ought to choose his epitaph
Self-conscious, melancholy.
“The more his years the more his sins—
Interminable list:
The might-have-dones, the might-have-beens
(Were any lips unkissed?)
“How small his leisure to repent!
His future's just before him:
His past, so palpably misspent,
Must cast its shadow o'er him.
“Then let him of the trembling hand,
Th' uncertain step and wary,
Cease cumbering the patient land
And seek a monastery.”
II
Ah, critic, of the look severe,
'Tis we you gently spurn
Who lead the phalanx, year to year
(Where you shall have your turn).
Have patience with us if we show
None with your stale convention;
We find that life has zest not woe
With every year's extension.
How many friends are gone! The ways
And fashions of their time
To us are like strange roundelays
Rung by a distant chime.
Out of the past we glean the grain
And count the tares forgot.
Our sins would surely be a bane
If we ignored them not.
Each year of beauty adds a store
To all the cherished treasure,
And by the Past's delightful lore
We take the Future's measure.
Our friends may pass, but never fade;
They live when one remembers,
As do the fires by lovers made
Within the sacred embers.
No friendship drives another out,
We still may seek and find
New comrades—old or young—to flout
Black Care and soothe the mind.
To love one's neighbor as one's self
Is still the great command;
We know not Ghibelline or Guelf
In this inclusive band.
Though you proclaim it moribund
Our life is more abundant,
And Age you timidly have shunned
Is full of joys redundant.
We look upon the changing creeds
With tolerance paternal,
Sure that Life's errors in its needs
Will find a cure eternal.
We'll save from chaos something still
By dint of gentle living.
In the religion of good-will
The best delight is giving.
And if some lips must go unkissed
(I own the fault is weighty),
The few that 77 has missed
May well be left to 80.
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