Classic Poem

La Vieillesse

Time is pressing us hard, and his mark
On our foreheads in wrinkles will mould
Though of youth there may linger a spark,
Ay, my friends, we are doomed to grow old
But of flowers fresh-revived at our feet,
More than all we can pluck, to behold —
To live only for all that is sweet —
Nay, my friends, this is not to grow old!

'Tis in vain that our spirits to cheer
Wine is quaffed, and the chorus is trolled;
At the board with friends hearty and dear,
Some are sure to remark we grow old.
But to feel to the last of our days
That the vine can new blossoms unfold —
Though they tremble, our voices to raise —
Nay, my friends, this is not to grow old!

If our incense we burn for a flirt,
Who was wont not to be overcold,
Soon perchance we may hear her assert,
That she finds we are growing too old.
But in all things less rashly to spend,
And to relish far more what is doled —
From a mistress to fashion a friend —
Nay, my friends, this is not to grow old!

Ne'er so long as our passions survive,
Ne'er so late as they play uncontrolled,
Since old age in the end must arrive,
At the least let's together grow old!
From the corner that gathers us here
To chase ills, hanging o'er us, we're told —
All together to close our career —
Nay, my friends, this is not to grow old!