When I was young, long, long ago,
I loved to see the falling snow;
but now that I am old and bent,
I do not like it worth a cent.
The land looks ghastly, stark and dead,
when over it the snow is spread;
the land where late the roses bloomed
is in its shroud in snow entombed.
I like this good old pleasant globe
when shining verdure forms its robe,
when grass is growing on the hills,
and codfish sport along the rills;
then everything seems full of vim;
I dance and shake a buoyant limb;
and if some common village scold
come up to tell me I am old,
I turn a handspring on the green,
to show that I am sweet sixteen.
It takes the sunshine and the breeze
to limber up a dotard’s knees,
and make him feel he’s still on earth,
a creature of some use and worth.
But when he from the window looks
on naked woods and frozen brooks,
on snow wreaths whirling in a rage,
he feels the burden of his age.
It seems to him his age must be
a thousand years, plus two or three.
And all the boys he used to know
are sleeping somewhere ‘neath the snow;
and colder than a miser’s soul
the snow comes down, while church bells toll
a requiem for Tom or Jim —
when will the blamed bells toll for him?
Such thoughts the drifting snowflakes bring;
and snow’s a bleak and ghostly thing.
Ogden Standard Examiner (Ogden, Utah) Dec 21, 1920
Appleton Post Crescent (Appleton, Wisconsin) Dec 5, 1921