Days of darkness, of dreariness, have come…. Thy own infirmities, the
sufferings of those dear to thee, the chill and gloom of old age. All that
thou hast loved, to which thou hast given thyself irrevocably, is falling,
going to pieces. The way is all down-hill.
What canst thou do? Grieve? Complain? Thou wilt aid not thyself nor others
On the bowed and withering tree the leaves are smaller and fewer, but its
green is yet the same.
Do thou too shrink within, withdraw into thyself, into thy memories, and
there, deep down, in the very depths of the soul turned inwards on itself,
thy old life, to which thou alone hast the key, will be bright again for
thee, in all the fragrance, all the fresh green, and the grace and power of
But beware… look not forward, poor old man!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem