On Growing Old

only the bayan tree by the temple seems to be growing stronger tougher these forty years while my legs have loosen developed rheumatism the old cement floor too has given way to the bayan's roots that rise to show its steely strength bayan, the first to herald buddha's enightenment our ancestor's friend ever strong, tenacious, saviour to barren women seen occasionally at lonely dawn weeping profusely for a heaven sent smoke of their josssticks angled on crevices, furls, twirls towards heavens from the temple door one witnesses faithfuls' spiritual strength in the faces of gods, goddesses painted by smoke from countless incense and jossticks faithfuls who despite their age still manage to kneel and perform rites easier on flexible bones bayan tree after all these stormy years growing old to shine with grandeur and mystery inspired by On Growing Old Be with me, Beauty, for the fire is dying; My dog and I are old, too old for roving. Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying, Is soon too lame to march, too cold for loving. I take the book and gather to the fire, Turning old yellow leaves; minute by minute The clock ticks to my heart. A withered wire, Moves a thiun ghost of music in the spinet. I cannot sail your seas, I cannot wander Your cornland, nor your hill-land, nor your valleys Ever again, nore share the battle yonder Where the young knight the broken squadron rallies. Only stay quiet while my mind remembers The beauty of fire from the beauty of embers. Beauty, have pity! for the strong have power, The rich their wealth, the beautiful their grace, Summer of man its sunlight and its flower. Spring-time of man, all April in a face. Only, as in the jostling in the Strand, Where the mob thrusts, or loiters, or is loud, The beggar with the saucer in his hand Asks only a penny from the passing crowd, So, from this glittering world with all its fashion, Its fire, and play of men, its stir, its march, Let me have wisdom, Beauty, wisdom and passion, Bread to the soul, rain when the summers parch. Give me but these, and though the darkness close Even the night will blossom as the rose.