Threescore and Ten
As time passes, I find myself increasingly drawn to old authors and old books. We scour the used bookshops to look for lost treasures. At the back of one such nineteenth-century work I found this old poem simply by Edward Morris. I don’t know who Edward Morris had been or when he resided, but I’m grateful for the sweet poem he remaining us, a poem which usually celebrates the days so many lament—the days when life is continuing to grow long and death draws near.
To me the years have gentler grown,
And time more gracious now than then,
Though here I sit plus muse alone,
Threescore and ten.
The best associated with living is the last,
And life seems nicest at its close;
And something richer than the past,
These days disclose.
We mourn not now the silvered hair,
The particular trembling hand, the screwing up power,
As right here I wait and calmly dare,
The coming hour.
What dreams of reverance or of gain,
Of wreaths or caps to grace my brow,
Once stirred my spirit, none remain,
To stir me at this point.
The tossing life, the hope and fear,
The strife, the pain of earlier days,
On these, all past, We look with clear,
And even when I sorrow most,
Yet happy are the tears I shed,
And vivid the memories of the dropped,
The pious dead.
The increase of the hammer toe and wine,
Plus growing gladness in the coronary heart,
And wondrous sophistication and joy are my own,
From men apart.
Alone, but not alone, We stand;
Around, above, a Power divine
Will be shining, and a heavenly hands,
Is touching mine.
Strange glories gild the closing day,
Then one bright star from away the west
Calls me in tender shades away,
From function to rest.
And voices which amid the din
Of outward lifestyle I could not hear
Are gently whispering within,
Their words of cheer.
So , welcome is usually each flying year,
And welcome is this noiseless bliss;
Nothing the noisy world can yield,
Compares with this.
Therefore, reclining on the slope
Of life, apart from active men,
I firmly grasp this larger wish,
Threescore and ten!