Rabbi Ben Ezra

“Grow old along with me!The best is yet to be,The last of life for which the first was made.”

Grow old along with me!The best is yet to be,The last of life, for which the first was made:Our times are in His handWho saith, “A whole I plann’d,Youth shows but half; trust God: see all nor be afraid!”

Not that, amassing flowers,Youth sigh’d, “Which rose make ours,Which lily leave and then as best recall?”Not that, admiring stars,It yearn’d, “Nor Jove, nor Mars;Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!”

Not for such hopes and fearsAnnulling youth’s brief years,Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark!Rather I prize the doubtLow kinds exist without,Finish’d and finite clods, untroubled by a spark.

Poor vaunt of life indeed,Were man but formed to feedOn joy, to solely seek and find and feast:Such feasting ended, thenAs sure an end to men;Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-cramm’d beast?

Rejoice we are alliedTo That which doth provideAnd not partake, effect and not receive!A spark disturbs our clod;Nearer we hold of GodWho gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe.

Then, welcome each rebuffThat turns earth’s smoothness rough,Each sting, that bids nor sit nor stand, but go!Be our joys three parts pain!Strive, and hold cheap the strain;Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!

For thence,--a paradoxWhich comforts while it mocks,--Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail:What I aspired to be,And was not, comforts me:A brute I might have been, but would not sink i’ the scale.

What is he but a bruteWhose flesh has soul to suit,Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play?To man, propose this test--Thy body at its best,How far can that project thy soul on its lone way?

Yet gifts should prove their use:I own the Past profuseOf power each side, perfection every turn:Eyes, ears took in their dole,Brain treasured up the whole:Should not the heart beat once “How good to live and learn?”

Not once beat “Praise be Thine!I see the whole design,I, who saw power, see now love perfect too:Perfect I call Thy plan:Thanks that I was a man!Maker, remake, complete,--I trust what Thou shalt do!”

For pleasant is this flesh,Our soul, in its rose-meshPull’d ever to the earth, still yearns for rest;Would we some prize might holdTo match those manifoldPossessions of the brute,--gain most, as we did best!

Let us not always say,“Spite of this flesh to-dayI strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!”As the bird wings and sings,Let us cry, “All good thingsAre ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!”

Therefore I summon ageTo grant youth’s heritage,Life’s struggle having so far reached its term:Thence shall I pass, approvedA man, for aye removedFrom the developed brute; a god though in the germ.

And I shall thereuponTake rest, ere I be goneOnce more on my adventure brave and new:Fearless and unperplex’d,When I wage battle next,What weapons to select, what armour to indue.

Youth ended, I shall tryMy gain or loss thereby;Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold:And I shall weigh the same,Give life its praise or blame:Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old.

For note, when evening shuts,A certain moment cutsThe deed off, calls the glory from the gray:A whisper from the westShoots--“Add this to the rest,Take it and try its worth: here dies another day.”

So, still within this life,Though lifted o’er its strife,Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last,“This rage was right i’ the main,That acquiescence vain:The Future I may face now I have proved the Past”

For more is not reservedTo man, with soul just nervedTo act to-morrow what he learns to-day:Here, work enough to watchThe Master work, and catchHints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool’s true play.

As it was better, youthShould strive, through acts uncouth,Toward making, than repose on aught found made:So, better, age, exemptFrom strife, should know, than temptFurther. Thou waitedest age: wait death nor be afraid!

Enough now, if the RightAnd Good and InfiniteBe named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own,With knowledge absolute,Subject to no disputeFrom fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone.

Be there, for once and all,Sever’d great minds from small,Announced to each his station in the Past!Was I, the world arraigned,Were they, my soul disdain’d,Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last!

Now, who shall arbitrate?Ten men love what I hate,Shun what I follow, slight what I receive;Ten, who in ears and eyesMatch me: we all surmise,They this thing, and I that: whom shall my soul believe?

Not on the vulgar massCall’d “work,” must sentence pass,Things done, that took the eye and had the price;O’er which, from level stand,The low world laid its hand,Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice:

But all, the world’s coarse thumbAnd finger fail’d to plumb,So pass’d in making up the main account;All instincts immature,All purposes unsure,That weigh’d not as his work, yet swell’d the man’s amount:

Thoughts hardly to be pack’dInto a narrow act,Fancies that broke through language and escaped,All I could never be,All, men ignored in me,This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.

Ay, note that Potter’s wheel,That metaphor! and feelWhy time spins fast, why passive lies our clay,--Thou, to whom fools propound,When the wine makes its round,“Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!”

Fool! All that is, at all,Lasts ever, past recall;Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure;What enter’d into thee,That was, is, and shall be:Time’s wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure.

He fix’d thee ’mid this danceOf plastic circumstance,This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrestMachinery just meantTo give thy soul its bent,Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impress’d.

What though the earlier groovesWhich ran the laughing lovesAround thy base, no longer pause and press?What though, about thy rim,Scull-things in order grimGrow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress?

Look not thou down but up!To uses of a cup,The festal board, lamp’s flash and trumpet’s peal,The new wine’s foaming flow,The master’s lips aglow!Thou, heaven’s consummate cup, what need’st thou with earth’s wheel?

But I need, now as then,Thee, God, who mouldest men;And since, not even while the whirl was worstDid I,--to the wheel of lifeWith shapes and colours rife,Bound dizzily,--mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst:

So, take and use Thy work:Amend what flaws may lurk,What strain o’ the stuff, what warpings past the aim!My times be in Thy hand!Perfect the cup as plann’d!Lest age approve of youth, and death complete the same!