FOR one hour of joyful youth! Give back my twentieth spring! I'd rather laugh a bright-haired boy, Than reign a gray-beard king!

Off with the wrinkled spoils of age!
Away with learning's crown!
Tear out life's wisdom-written page,
And dash its trophies down!

One moment let my life-blood stream
From boyhood's fount of fame!
Give me one giddy, reeling dream
Of life, all love and flame!

My listening angel heard the prayer,
And, calmly smiling, said,
"If I but touch thy silvered hair,
Thy hasty wish hath sped.

"But is there nothing in thy track
To bid thee fondly stay,

While the swift seasons hurry back
To find the wished-for day?"

Ah, truest soul of womanhood! Without thee what were life?

One bliss I cannot leave behind:
I'll take-my-precious-wife!
The angel took a sapphire pen

And wrote in rainbow dew,
"The man would be a boy again,
And be a husband too!

"And is there nothing yet unsaid, Before the change appears? Remember, all their gifts have fled With those dissolving years!" Why, yes; for memory would recall My fond paternal oys;

I could not bear to leave them all:
I'll take-my-girl-and-boys!
The smiling angel dropped his pen-
"Why, this will never do;

The man would be a boy again,
And be a father too!"

And so I laughed—my laughter woke
The household with its noise-
And wrote my dream when morning broke
To please the gray-haired boys.
-Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair, round belly, with good capon lined,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

-Shakespeare.

My nights are blessed with sweetest sleep; I feel no symptoms of decay,

I have no cause to mourn nor weep;

My foes are impotent and shy;

My friends are neither false nor cold, And yet, of late, I often sigh,

I'm growing old!

My growing talk of olden times,

My growing thirst for early news,

My growing ap-hy to rhymes,

My growing love of easy shoes,

My growing hate of crowds and noise,
My growing fear of taking cold,
All whisper in the plainest voice,

I'm growing old.

I'm growing fonder of my staff; I'm growing dimmer in the eyes; I'm growing fainter in my laugh; I'm growing deeper in my sighs;

I'm growing careless of my dress; I'm growing frugal of my gold; I'm growing wise; I'm growing,

yes,

I'm growing old!

I see it in my changing taste;
I see it in my changing hair;

I see it in my growing waist;
I see it in my growing heir;
A thousand signs proclaim the truth,
As plain as truth was ever told,
That, even in my vaunted youth,
I'm growing old!

Ah me! my very laurels breathe
The tale in my reluctant ears,
And every boon the hours bequeath
But makes me debtor to the years!
E'en Flattery's honeyed words declare
The secret she would fain withhold,
And tells in "How young you are!"
I'm growing old!