The Song Of Seventy Poem by Martin Farquhar Tupper

I am not old -- I cannot be old,
Though threescore years and ten
Have wasted away, like a tale that is told,
The lives of other men:

I am not old; though friends and foes
Alike have gown down to their graves,
And left me alone to my joys or my woes,
As a rock in the midst of the waves;

I am not old -- I cannot be old,
Though tottering, wrinkled, and grey;
Though my eyes are dim, and my marrow is cold,
Call me not old to-day.

For, early memories round me throng,
Old times, and manners, and men,
As I look behind on my journey so long
Of threescore miles and ten.

I look behind, and am once more young,
Buoyant, and brave, and bold,
And my heart can sing, as of yore it sung,
Before they call'd me old.

I do not see her -- the old wife there --
Shrivell'd, and haggard, and grey,
But I look on her blooming, and soft, and fair,
As she was on her wedding-day:

I do not see you, daughters and sons,
In the likeness of women and men,
But I kiss you now as I kissed you once,
My fond little children then:

And, as my own grandson rides on my knee
Or plays with his hoop or kite,--
I can well recollect I was merry as he--
The bright-eyed little wight!

'Tis not long since,-- it cannot be long,--
My years so soon were spent,
Since I was a boy, both straight and strong,
Yet now I am feeble and bent.

A dream, a dream,-- it is all a dream!
A strange, sad dream, good sooth;
For old as I am, and old as I seem,
My heart is full of youth:

Eye hath not seen, tongue hath not told,
And ear hath not heard it sung,
How buoyant and bold, though it seem to grow old,
Is the heart, for ever young:

For ever young,-- though life's old age
Hath every nerve unstrung;
The heart, the heart is a heritage
That keeps the old man young!