FIELDS are green in the early light,
When Morning treads on the skirts of Night
Fields are gray when the sun's gone west,
Like a clerk from the City in search of rest.
"Flesh," they tell us, "is only grass
And that is the reason it comes to pass
That mortals change in a life's long day
From the young and green to the old and gray.
Not long since—as it seems to me—
I was as youthful as youth could be:
Cramming my noddle, as young folks do,
With a thousand things more nice than true.
Now this noddle of mine looks strange,
With its plenty of silver—and no small change!—
Surely I came the swiftest way
From the young and green to the old and gray.
Though the day be a changeful thing
In winter and summer, autumn and spring;
Days in December and days in June
Both seem finish'd a deal too soon.
Twilight shadows come closing in,
And the calmest, placidest hours begin:
The closing scenes of the piece we play
From the young and green to the old and gray.