My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard. Thus fares it still in our decay: And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what age takes away Than what it leaves behind.

A youth to whom was given So much of earth-so much of heaven, And such impetuous blood.

Something between a hindrance and a help.

And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.

They pass upon their old, tremulous feet, Creeping with little satchels down the street, And they remember, many years ago, Passing that way in silks. They wan…

I used to be able to summon up scenes at will, but now aging memory is so busy weeding its own garden that, promiscuously, it pulls up roses as well as crabgra…

Age imprints more wrinkles in the mind than it does on the face.