The women mock me for being old,
Bidding me look at the wreck of my years in the mirror.
But I, as I approach the end of my life,
Care not whether I have white hair or black,
And with sweet-scented ointments
And crowns of lovely flowers and wine
I make heavy care to cease.
everybody will grow...age is a blessing. i love your share dear poet
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Lovely poem. Enjoying the fun of aging. Thanks.