This it is to grow old,
That I shall lose
The 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 those
That are all of loveliness now, the flame and the rose.
I shall despise
The sudden tears that music brings to the eyes.