p. 277 | GROWING OLD

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · May 1, 1900

“GROWING OLD.”

It was an autumn day, and during my walk through the orchard and woods, many solemn and melancholy thoughts passed through my mind. I beheld the dying and decaying herbage on every side. These things seemed to silently whisper to me of a comparison between their life and my life. It was such a little while since I had seen these same leaves and plants just bursting into life. Soon the blossoms appeared, then quickly disappeared, leaving seeds and fruits to develop. How swiftly the glad spring and beautiful summer had passed away! Autumn had come and adorned the trees and plants with a richer robe. The fruit had been gathered, and now the leaves, some yellow, some crimson, some sere and brown, were dropping upon the ground to decay. Old age had come to them. Winter was fast approaching, and soon the trees would appear naked and gray.

Suddenly I was aroused from my mournful meditations; a fitful gust of wind sent a little scrap of dirty yellow paper fluttering to my feet. I picked it up, and, carefully straightening it out, I managed to read from it the following beautiful verses:—

“The tallest lilies droop at eventide; The sweetest roses fall from off the stem: The rarest things on earth can not abide; And we are passing, too, away like them; We’re growing old.

“We had our dreams, those rosy dreams of youth; They faded, and ’t was well. This afterprime Hath brought us fuller hopes; and yet, forsooth, We drop a tear now in this later time; We think we’re old.

“We smile at those poor fancies of the past— A saddened smile, almost akin to pain: Those high desires, those purposes so vast, Ah, our poor hearts! they can not come again; We’re growing old.

“Old! Well, the heavens are old, this earth is too; Old wine is best, maturest fruit most sweet; Much have we lost, more gained, although ’t is true We tread life’s way with most uncertain feet; We’re growing old.

“We move along, and scatter as we pace Soft graces, tender hopes on every hand; At last, with gray-streaked hair and hollow face, We step across the boundary of the land Where none are old.”

Ah, thought I, the wind has brought this to me that I might pass it along to those who are ripe enough to possess gray hair and wrinkles; and may these words bring peace and consolation to such! Let the sunken eyes, that have grown dim with long watching, look from beneath the wrinkled brows upon these lines and take courage.

Dear aged friends, you have traveled far; your journey has been rough and wearisome. The snow of time is upon your heads, and your perishing forms tell of coming decay; but soon you will reach the boundary line, and blessed be your hoary heads if they be found in the way of righteousness; for such may firmly grasp the strong hand of the Great Shepherd, and safely step away over into the glorious land of the beautiful beyond, where the lilies never droop, the roses never fall, “where none are old.” —Selected by a Correspondent.