TAKING IT EASY.ByGEORGE H. CLARK.Admitthat I am slightly bald,—Pray, who’s to blame for that?And who is wiser for the fact,Until I lift my hat?Beneath the brim my barbered locksFall in a careless way,Wherein my watchful wife can spyNo lurking threads of gray.What though, to read compactest print,I’m forced to hold my bookA little farther off than whenLife’s first degree I took?A yoke of slightly convex lensThe needful aid bestows,And you should see how wise I lookWith it astride my nose.Don’t talk of the infernal pangsThat rheumatism brings!I’m getting used to pains and aches,And all those sort of things.And when the imp SciaticaMakes his malicious call,I do not need an almanacTo tell me it is fall.Besides, it gives one quite an airTo travel with a cane,And makes folk think you “well to do,â€Although you are in pain.A fashionable hat may crownGenteelest coat and vest,But ah! the sturdy stick redeemsAnd sobers all the rest.A man deprived of natural sleepBecomes a stupid elf,And only steals from Father TimeTo stultify himself.So, if you’d be a jovial soul,And laugh at life’s decline,Take my advice,—turn off the gas,And go to bed at nine!An easy-cushioned rocking-chairSuits me uncommon well;And so do liberal shoes,—like these,—With room for corns to swell;I cotton to the soft lamb’s-woolThat lines my gloves of kid,And love elastic home-made socks,—Indeed, I always did.But what disturbs me more than allIs, that sarcastic boysPrefer to have me somewhere else,When they are at their noise;That while I try to look and actAs like them as I can,They will persist inmister-ing me,And calling me a man!* * * * *True—Time will seam and blanch my brow.Well, I shall sit with aged men,And my good glass will tell me howA grisly beard becomes me then.And should no foul dishonor lieUpon my head, when I am gray,Love yet shall watch my fading eye,And smooth the path of my decay.Then haste thee, Time,—’tis kindness allThat speeds thy wingèd feet so fast;Thy pleasures stay not till they pall,And all thy pains are quickly past.Thou fliest and bear’st away our woes,And, as thy shadowy train depart,The memory of sorrow growsA lighter burden on the heart.W. C. Bryant.
TAKING IT EASY.ByGEORGE H. CLARK.
Admitthat I am slightly bald,—Pray, who’s to blame for that?And who is wiser for the fact,Until I lift my hat?Beneath the brim my barbered locksFall in a careless way,Wherein my watchful wife can spyNo lurking threads of gray.What though, to read compactest print,I’m forced to hold my bookA little farther off than whenLife’s first degree I took?A yoke of slightly convex lensThe needful aid bestows,And you should see how wise I lookWith it astride my nose.Don’t talk of the infernal pangsThat rheumatism brings!I’m getting used to pains and aches,And all those sort of things.And when the imp SciaticaMakes his malicious call,I do not need an almanacTo tell me it is fall.Besides, it gives one quite an airTo travel with a cane,And makes folk think you “well to do,â€Although you are in pain.A fashionable hat may crownGenteelest coat and vest,But ah! the sturdy stick redeemsAnd sobers all the rest.A man deprived of natural sleepBecomes a stupid elf,And only steals from Father TimeTo stultify himself.So, if you’d be a jovial soul,And laugh at life’s decline,Take my advice,—turn off the gas,And go to bed at nine!An easy-cushioned rocking-chairSuits me uncommon well;And so do liberal shoes,—like these,—With room for corns to swell;I cotton to the soft lamb’s-woolThat lines my gloves of kid,And love elastic home-made socks,—Indeed, I always did.But what disturbs me more than allIs, that sarcastic boysPrefer to have me somewhere else,When they are at their noise;That while I try to look and actAs like them as I can,They will persist inmister-ing me,And calling me a man!
Admitthat I am slightly bald,—Pray, who’s to blame for that?And who is wiser for the fact,Until I lift my hat?Beneath the brim my barbered locksFall in a careless way,Wherein my watchful wife can spyNo lurking threads of gray.What though, to read compactest print,I’m forced to hold my bookA little farther off than whenLife’s first degree I took?A yoke of slightly convex lensThe needful aid bestows,And you should see how wise I lookWith it astride my nose.Don’t talk of the infernal pangsThat rheumatism brings!I’m getting used to pains and aches,And all those sort of things.And when the imp SciaticaMakes his malicious call,I do not need an almanacTo tell me it is fall.Besides, it gives one quite an airTo travel with a cane,And makes folk think you “well to do,â€Although you are in pain.A fashionable hat may crownGenteelest coat and vest,But ah! the sturdy stick redeemsAnd sobers all the rest.A man deprived of natural sleepBecomes a stupid elf,And only steals from Father TimeTo stultify himself.So, if you’d be a jovial soul,And laugh at life’s decline,Take my advice,—turn off the gas,And go to bed at nine!An easy-cushioned rocking-chairSuits me uncommon well;And so do liberal shoes,—like these,—With room for corns to swell;I cotton to the soft lamb’s-woolThat lines my gloves of kid,And love elastic home-made socks,—Indeed, I always did.But what disturbs me more than allIs, that sarcastic boysPrefer to have me somewhere else,When they are at their noise;That while I try to look and actAs like them as I can,They will persist inmister-ing me,And calling me a man!
Admitthat I am slightly bald,—Pray, who’s to blame for that?And who is wiser for the fact,Until I lift my hat?Beneath the brim my barbered locksFall in a careless way,Wherein my watchful wife can spyNo lurking threads of gray.
Admitthat I am slightly bald,—
Pray, who’s to blame for that?
And who is wiser for the fact,
Until I lift my hat?
Beneath the brim my barbered locks
Fall in a careless way,
Wherein my watchful wife can spy
No lurking threads of gray.
What though, to read compactest print,I’m forced to hold my bookA little farther off than whenLife’s first degree I took?A yoke of slightly convex lensThe needful aid bestows,And you should see how wise I lookWith it astride my nose.
What though, to read compactest print,
I’m forced to hold my book
A little farther off than when
Life’s first degree I took?
A yoke of slightly convex lens
The needful aid bestows,
And you should see how wise I look
With it astride my nose.
Don’t talk of the infernal pangsThat rheumatism brings!I’m getting used to pains and aches,And all those sort of things.And when the imp SciaticaMakes his malicious call,I do not need an almanacTo tell me it is fall.
Don’t talk of the infernal pangs
That rheumatism brings!
I’m getting used to pains and aches,
And all those sort of things.
And when the imp Sciatica
Makes his malicious call,
I do not need an almanac
To tell me it is fall.
Besides, it gives one quite an airTo travel with a cane,And makes folk think you “well to do,â€Although you are in pain.A fashionable hat may crownGenteelest coat and vest,But ah! the sturdy stick redeemsAnd sobers all the rest.
Besides, it gives one quite an air
To travel with a cane,
And makes folk think you “well to do,â€
Although you are in pain.
A fashionable hat may crown
Genteelest coat and vest,
But ah! the sturdy stick redeems
And sobers all the rest.
A man deprived of natural sleepBecomes a stupid elf,And only steals from Father TimeTo stultify himself.So, if you’d be a jovial soul,And laugh at life’s decline,Take my advice,—turn off the gas,And go to bed at nine!
A man deprived of natural sleep
Becomes a stupid elf,
And only steals from Father Time
To stultify himself.
So, if you’d be a jovial soul,
And laugh at life’s decline,
Take my advice,—turn off the gas,
And go to bed at nine!
An easy-cushioned rocking-chairSuits me uncommon well;And so do liberal shoes,—like these,—With room for corns to swell;I cotton to the soft lamb’s-woolThat lines my gloves of kid,And love elastic home-made socks,—Indeed, I always did.
An easy-cushioned rocking-chair
Suits me uncommon well;
And so do liberal shoes,—like these,—
With room for corns to swell;
I cotton to the soft lamb’s-wool
That lines my gloves of kid,
And love elastic home-made socks,—
Indeed, I always did.
But what disturbs me more than allIs, that sarcastic boysPrefer to have me somewhere else,When they are at their noise;That while I try to look and actAs like them as I can,They will persist inmister-ing me,And calling me a man!
But what disturbs me more than all
Is, that sarcastic boys
Prefer to have me somewhere else,
When they are at their noise;
That while I try to look and act
As like them as I can,
They will persist inmister-ing me,
And calling me a man!
* * * * *
True—Time will seam and blanch my brow.Well, I shall sit with aged men,And my good glass will tell me howA grisly beard becomes me then.And should no foul dishonor lieUpon my head, when I am gray,Love yet shall watch my fading eye,And smooth the path of my decay.Then haste thee, Time,—’tis kindness allThat speeds thy wingèd feet so fast;Thy pleasures stay not till they pall,And all thy pains are quickly past.Thou fliest and bear’st away our woes,And, as thy shadowy train depart,The memory of sorrow growsA lighter burden on the heart.W. C. Bryant.
True—Time will seam and blanch my brow.Well, I shall sit with aged men,And my good glass will tell me howA grisly beard becomes me then.And should no foul dishonor lieUpon my head, when I am gray,Love yet shall watch my fading eye,And smooth the path of my decay.Then haste thee, Time,—’tis kindness allThat speeds thy wingèd feet so fast;Thy pleasures stay not till they pall,And all thy pains are quickly past.Thou fliest and bear’st away our woes,And, as thy shadowy train depart,The memory of sorrow growsA lighter burden on the heart.W. C. Bryant.
True—Time will seam and blanch my brow.Well, I shall sit with aged men,And my good glass will tell me howA grisly beard becomes me then.
True—Time will seam and blanch my brow.
Well, I shall sit with aged men,
And my good glass will tell me how
A grisly beard becomes me then.
And should no foul dishonor lieUpon my head, when I am gray,Love yet shall watch my fading eye,And smooth the path of my decay.
And should no foul dishonor lie
Upon my head, when I am gray,
Love yet shall watch my fading eye,
And smooth the path of my decay.
Then haste thee, Time,—’tis kindness allThat speeds thy wingèd feet so fast;Thy pleasures stay not till they pall,And all thy pains are quickly past.
Then haste thee, Time,—’tis kindness all
That speeds thy wingèd feet so fast;
Thy pleasures stay not till they pall,
And all thy pains are quickly past.
Thou fliest and bear’st away our woes,And, as thy shadowy train depart,The memory of sorrow growsA lighter burden on the heart.
Thou fliest and bear’st away our woes,
And, as thy shadowy train depart,
The memory of sorrow grows
A lighter burden on the heart.
W. C. Bryant.