The year gets older storms streak the skies I am told age is a quality of the mind,
Do I sit indoors and watch the fog, the dirt, the rain and wind splash on my windows,
So I wonder around indoors in a depressing influence of a winter with its suffering,
Muttering to myself and to others that old age has made me leave my dreams behind me.
Standing by French windows, beaten by tempests, so I shuffle over to an evening fire,
The flowers have gone and longer grass stands among the thickets withered, bleached,
The fern red and shriveled amid the green gorse and broom, even my hope has gone cold,
Plants that waved white umbels to the summer breeze now a skeleton a trophy of death.
The brooks are brimful the rivers turbid covered with masses of foam hurrying along,
Words in my head whisper, if you no longer plan ahead, ambitions dead, you are old,
Our gardens, sad and damp and so desolate their floral splendors are naked and dead,
Decaying leaves have taken the place of verdure and all is gloom and all is silence.