Am I getting old
The sun is bright;
The sky is blue,
The air is clear,
And all things look new,
And all things look rare,
The trees, the leaves,
The buds and the flowers,
Love, hope, joy, sorrow,
My bosoms, near and dear,
All do care and my choristers
Me neither desert nor stand cold,
And yet, of late, I often ask
Am I getting old?
Though I often talk a long,
Of golden days all along,
Of crowds and noises I can’t stand,
Of changing taste in food,
Of carelessness in my dress,
Of growing apathy to rhymes,
Of growing dimness in eyes,
In my laugh and in my sighs,
And growing frugality of my gold,
And a thousand instances stand
To proclaim the truth,
That I am getting old.
Yet, I often ask all around,
Am I getting old....?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
When we begin to gloat over our youth and talk too much about 'the good old days', it is a sure sign that we are getting old.....! (Ha... Ha!) If you want to stay young, live in the present Deepak.....