Down the hill of life they’re tottering,
Step so slow, and form so bent;
They who once enjoyed life’s morning
Now to eventide are spent.
They, once strong to earthly burdens,
Now seem weak to walk alone,
And we wonder how time alters
Flesh and blood to withered bone.
Yes, we wonder as we see them,
Robust youth and forms so fair
Changed within a few short seasons
To infirmness – hoary hair.
Changed amid the whirl of nature,
Scenes which seem to never wend;
Life for us, a short duration
Until called upon to end.
True, indeed, of man it’s spoken,
As a flower, so his day,
For he bloometh but to wither
Ere he passeth hence away.
A.A. Moylarg 14th May 1926