I've lurched through middle age
More sophomore than sage,
More prodigal than thrifty:

A careless man, past fifty.

I hear the hounds of Time
Follow me on my climb
Up hills of strife and woe.
And will they surely go
Pursuing me back down
Those slopes of ill renown?

My limbs are getting sore
As I approach threescore;
My eyes, all blurred with haze
As I exhaust my days.
And sometimes I just can't
Speak plain, with wit so scant.

The years of my brief jaunt
Dwindle in their remainder.
Wisdom lets fly her taunt
That I've not yet attained her.