Posts Tagged ‘Old Age’

I Ain’t Dead Yet

January 6, 2012

I AIN’T DEAD YET

Time was I used to worry an’
Sit around and sigh
And think with every ache I got
That I was going to die.
I’ve seen disaster coming from
A dozen different ways
An’ prophesied calamity and dark
And dreary days.
But I’ve come to this conclusion
That it’s foolishness to fret;
I’ve had my share o’ sickness —
But I ain’t dead yet.

I’ve found a thousand failures and
A thousand deaths I’ve died,
I’ve had this world in ruins
By the gloom I’ve prophesied,
But the sun shines bright this morning
And the skies above are blue,
And with all my grief and trouble
I have somehow lived it through.
There may be cares before me
Much like those that I have met,
Death will come some day and take me —
But I ain’t dead yet.

— BOBBIE DONAHUE, Texarcana

Decatur Herald (Decatur, Illinois) Oct 24, 1929

Snow’s a Bleak and Ghostly Thing

December 5, 2011

SNOW.

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.

Walt Mason

Ogden Standard Examiner (Ogden, Utah) Dec 21, 1920

Appleton Post Crescent (Appleton, Wisconsin) Dec 5, 1921