Growing Old

 Somehow the skies don't seem so blue
 As they used to be;
Blossoms have a fainter hue,
 Grass less green I see.

There's no twinkle in a star,
 Dawns don't seem so gold .
 .
 .

Yet, of course, I know they are:
 Guess I'm growing old.


Somehow sunshine seems less bright,
 Birds less gladly sing;
Moons don't thrill me with delight,
 There's no kick in Spring.

Hills are steeper now and I'm
 Sensitive to cold;
Lines are not so keen to rhyme .
 .
 .

 Gosh! I'm growing old.


Yet in spite of failing things
 I've no cause to grieve;
Age with all its ailing brings
 Blessings, I believe:
Kindo' gentles up the mind
 As the hope we hold
That with loving we will find
Friendliness in human kind,
 Grace in growing old.

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