Though much is taken, much abides, and yet
too often all that anyone can see
is what is taken, what is gone, is lost.
You ask a kid of twenty, “What is old?”
and he might tell you forty, forty-five;
and he’ll be right. He will be old by then.
He will be old because he’ll think he’s old.
And fifty-five? A senior citizen.
His life is over. When can he retire?
And where’s the warehouse where he can be put
until he does the world a favor and
he dies? I look at people who are old
in years and in infirmities and yet
they are not old. They do not wait to die.
Instead they live. For them the world awaits.
It isn’t over till you think it is.
How dull it is to pause and make an end.