I have, I think, most organs that
I started with. Some shaped by time
foreshortened, elongated, dulled.
I keep at bay time’s passage with the thought
this must I do, this might I do, this ought.
Thus never having nothing on my slate
I draw a little, dance a little, write;
and sometimes in the middle of the night
think splendid thoughts which trickle down
to verse. While opera and music still delight;
there’s history and nature to explore
and conversation with the worldly wise,
I’m washed by tides like pebbles on the shore.
Old age! Old age?
I’m sorry sir, I fail to recognise
the title on the page.