Man Against the Sky: A Book of Poems — The Voice of Age

The Voice of Age She'd look upon us, if she could, As hard as Rhadamanthus would;

Yet one may see,--who sees her face, Her crown of silver and of lace, Her mystical serene address Of age alloyed with loveliness,-- That she would not annihilate The frailest of things animate.

She has opinions of our ways, And if we're not all mad, she says,-- If our ways are not wholly worse Than others, for not being hers,-- There might somehow be found a few Less insane things for us to do, And we might have a little heed Of what Belshazzar couldn't read.

She feels, with all our furniture, Room yet for something more secure Than our self-kindled aureoles To guide our poor forgotten souls;

But when we have explained that grace Dwells now in doing for the race, She nods--as if she were relieved;

Almost as if she were deceived.

She frowns at much of what she hears, And shakes her head, and has her fears;

Though none may know, by any chance, What rose-leaf ashes of romance Are faintly stirred by later days That would be well enough, she says, If only people were more wise, And grown-up children used their eyes.