 | The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes |  |
INFELIX SENECTUS
To see an old and gray haired man,
It always makes me sad;
For why—I shall grow old myself
That am so stout a lad.
It always makes me sad;
For why—I shall grow old myself
That am so stout a lad.
What if one takes the portly turn,
And swells, and puffs, and grows,
Who does not hate your walking whale,
Your full blown human rose?
And swells, and puffs, and grows,
Who does not hate your walking whale,
Your full blown human rose?
Alas! a little dapper man,
May come to weigh a ton—
The pantaloons of twenty-two,
Are tights at forty-one!
May come to weigh a ton—
The pantaloons of twenty-two,
Are tights at forty-one!
And then to think of getting thin,
Is bad as bad can be;
Your eagle nose your salient chin,
Are shocking things to me.
Is bad as bad can be;
Your eagle nose your salient chin,
Are shocking things to me.
I'm not a baby or an ass,
But yet my soul it shocks,
That time should whittle down my legs,
And pick my golden locks.
But yet my soul it shocks,
That time should whittle down my legs,
And pick my golden locks.
Some decent calves are made of cork—
They're awkward in a boot;
Some decent periwigs are bought—
They're slow at taking root.
They're awkward in a boot;
Some decent periwigs are bought—
They're slow at taking root.
No—let me weep, I cannot bear
The wasting hand of years;
O were there nothing else to shed,
I would not grudge my tears.
The wasting hand of years;
O were there nothing else to shed,
I would not grudge my tears.
| The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes | |