As one grows older and Caesar, Hitler,

Lear and the salesman are bundled off one by one,

It is hard to sustain discomposure. The files thicken.

“Leaves,” says the poet,

“grass, and birds of the field,”

Conjuring up a glass and a good book

On some green hill

Where nobody bears or cares more than old care will.

Who’s in, who’s out—such words harden

In bronze or plastic; pipes and slippers

Move to their destined places, swords to theirs;

And one walking home at dusk with the evening paper

Thinks with erosive irreverence that perhaps

He should let his subscription to that sheet lapse.

What, then, would the world do? As swords clashed

Under the sun, and Prince Hal and Sir Winston

Triumphed on all continents, would then the word

Sweep the ranks that one watching watched no longer?

As he closed his eves to all but his own thin theme,

Would the world then oblige, age and dream his dream?

Dream. Dream. And still dream. And leave not a wrack.

As one grows older

Plato’s, Bottom’s and all such country rouses

Thicken the files with the rest;

And walking home at dusk with the sages, age

Thinks no more than age must always think:—

The world doesn’t oblige, and old pipes stink.