A Second Childhood

When all my days are ending     And I have no song to sing,     I think I shall not be too old     To stare at everything;     As I stared once at a nursery door     Or a tall tree and a swing.     Wherein God's ponderous mercy hangs     On all my sins and me,     Because He does not take away     The terror from the tree     And stones still shine along the road     That are and cannot be.     Men grow too old for love, my love,     Men grow too old for wine,     But I shall not grow too old to see     Unearthly daylight shine,     Changing my chamber's dust to snow     Till I doubt if it be mine.     Behold, the crowning mercies melt,     The first surprises stay;     And in my dross is dropped a gift     For which I dare not pray:     That a man grow used to grief and joy     But not to night and day.     Men grow too old for love, my love,     Men grow too old for lies;     But I shall not grow too old to see     Enormous night arise,     A cloud that is larger than the world     And a monster made of eyes.     Nor am I worthy to unloose     The latchet of my shoe;     Or shake the dust from off my feet     Or the staff that bears me through     On ground that is too good to last,     Too solid to be true.     Men grow too old to woo, my love,     Men grow too old to wed:     But I shall not grow too old to see     Hung crazily overhead     Incredible rafters when I wake     And find I am not dead.     A thrill of thunder in my hair:     Though blackening clouds be plain,     Still I am stung and startled     By the first drop of the rain:     Romance and pride and passion pass     And these are what remain.     Strange crawling carpets of the grass,     Wide windows of the sky:     So in this perilous grace of God     With all my sins go I:     And things grow new though I grow old,     Though I grow old and die.