This it is to grow old,That I shall loseThe gift of laughter at small and simple things;And, if ever old dreams fly past me, the brush of wings,Damp with Elysian dews,Will seem strange and cold.I shall have naught but wondering pity for thoseThat are all of loveliness now, the flame and the rose.I shall despiseThe sudden tears that music brings to the eyes.
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Growing Old
written byHyde Robin
© Hyde Robin
