Gray

They often say that wood is green When it’s new and in its youth; And when mature it is soft brown And that is but the truth. But when it’s old and dry and hard, Is when it turns to gray; And then it seems of not much use Till it is hauled away. And so it is with old horses And old cowboys so they say; They run their course and seize the time Till both then turn to gray. But, in the course of man’s events— Of old roans and dappled bay; They do the things that we expect Till all the world goes gray. And so it is with old folks now, Once young and in the pink; Or in their prime, all strong and tall— Thought they’d never die, I think. But now we’re old, all bent and frail— We’ve seen a better day; And like that wood, we disappear, As we all fade to gray.