Life is first boredom, then fear. Whether or not we use it, it goes, And leaves what something hidden from us chose, And age, and then the only end of age.
I have started to say "A quarter of a century" Or "thirty years back" About my own life.
Most people know more as they get older: I give all that the cold shoulder.
My age fallen away like white swaddling Floats in the middle distance, becomes An inhabited cloud.
One of the sadder things, I think, Is how our birthdays slowly sink: Presents and parties disappear, The cards grow fewer year by year, Till, when one reaches sixty-five, How many care we're still alive?
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