I'm Just Too Busy Growing Old
I'm just too busy growing old
To count the blossoms on the vine;
The dawn still spills its cups of gold,
But fewer mornings now are mine.
The robin sings beyond the gate,
The maple trembles in the breeze;
I bless them still—but not to wait,
For time has learned to borrow ease.
Once I could spend an afternoon
To watch one cloud become the sea;
Now every sunset comes too soon,
As if the light remembers me.
The hands that reached for distant skies
Grow slower with each passing year;
Yet love has gathered in my eyes,
And made the farthest star seem near.
If I must leave the rose unpressed,
Or let the lilac bloom alone,
It is because the heart finds rest
In tending harvests it has sown.
I'm just too busy growing old
To quarrel with the wind or rain;
The truest stories are not told—
They're carried softly into silence again.
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