Classic Poem

At seventy years one well might choose
To pause in service to the Muse;
Nor counts it much for blame or praise
To him whose brow is bound with bays
If she be kindly, or refuse.

Least—least of all, need we excuse
The Bard who, backward-looking, views
But blameless songs and blameless days
At seventy years!

And yet, Sing on. While life renews
Its morning skies, its evening hues,
Still may you walk in rhythmic ways
Companioned of the lyre whose lays
None—in this tuneless time—would lose
At seventy years!