Old age! thou art a bitter pill
For humankind to swallow;
Fraught with full many a present ill,
And fear of worse to follow.

And yet thou art a medicine good,
Not to be bought for money;
Worse than the worst of nauseous food,
Yet sweeter far than honey.

Thy aches and cramps, thy weary groans,
Infirmities which breed them,
Might move the very hearts of stones,
If stones had hearts to heed them.

But these must come, of course, with thee,
And none dispute, or doubt them;
Such may be borne, and wisest he
Who pothers least about them.

Old age! be what thou wilt, thy reign
Cannot endure for ever;
Feebleness, weariness, and pain
Are links that soon must sever!

And if thy pains the soul recall
To heavenly truth and warning,
Who would regret the ruin'd wall
That lets in such a morning?