On Growing Old-John Mansfield (1878-1967)

Be with me Beauty for the fire is dying
My dog and I are old, too old for roving,
Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying
Is soon to lame to march, too cold for loving.

I take the book and gather to the fire,
Turning old yellow leaves; minute by minute,
The clock ticks to my heart; a withered wire
Moves a thin ghost of music in the spinet.

I cannot sail your seas, I cannot wander,
Your corn-land, nor your hill-land, nor your valleys,
Ever again, nor share the battle yonder
Where the young Knight the broken squadron rallies.

Only stay quiet while my mind remembers
The beauty of fire from the beauty embers.
Beauty, have pity, for the strong have power
The rich their wealth, the beautiful their grace
Summer of man it's sunlight and it's flower
Spring time of man all April in a face.
Only, as in the jostling in the Strand,
Where the mob thrusts or loiters or is loud
The beggar with the saucer in his hand
Asks only a penny from the passing crowd,

So, from this glittering world with all it's fashion
It's fire and play of men, its stir, it's march,Let me have wisdom, Beauty, wisdom and passion,
Bread to the soul, rain where the summers parch.
Give me but these, and though the darkness close
Even the night will blossom as the rose.
--John Masefield