I Grow Old Poem by Philip Lore

After dark comes the day,
Agony of the world weaves its way.
Dreams under a wintry moon,
A tender rose that blooms in June.

Whey youth is pale, full of sorrow,
Young eyes sad beyond tomorrow.
Haunted air,
Gray whispery hair,
Leaden eyes, filled with despair.

In shades of darkness, there is light,
Tender is the earth at night.
Full of truth, this world unseen,
The sounds of silence dance and sing.
Stately skies with realms of gold,
As I gaze with wisdom....I grow old.