It is to suffer this, And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel: Deep in our hidden heart Festers the dull remembrance of a change, But no emotion -none. When we are frozen up within, and quite The phantom of ourselves, As one reaches the end of their life they are no longer able to physically take care of themselves, and all of the person they used to be is trapped inside ones body. Teach me the glorious lesson that occasionally I may be wrong. You always know after you are two. Growing Older - Humorous Poems At my age happy hour is nap time. Or I wouldn't be able to go out in the street.
These remarks directed at the ghost of the Arnold who wrote in another poem an elegy to the memory of a blind old poet named Homer who has been credited with composing both the Iliad and the Odyssey! These sexual, emotional, and physical demands would begin to extend to social demands: payment for care of the elderly, parental leave, childcare, etc. Perhaps his most famous poem ever is one you'll recognize. K is for my knees that crack all the time But forgive me, I get a few lapses in my Memory from time to time N is for nerve pinched and neck stiff and neurosis O is for osteo-for all the bones that crack P is for prescriptions, that cost a small fortune Q is for queasiness. First published in Selected Letters, edited by Anthony Thwaite. I'm off to write a poem now on Growing Old.
Those hands holding tight as he slowly died, Caressing his brow as she stood by his side. And, Lord, give me the grace to tell them so. Is it to feel each limbGrow stiffer, every function less exact,Each nerve more weakly strung? I believe that only in God, our creator, can we discover the true meaning and purpose for life. They are feeble in comparison to those they experienced in their youth. The first describes the loss of physical beauty and the second about the loss of physical strength and feeling in limbs. I do not have the ambition to become a saint -- it is so hard to live with some of them -- but a harsh old person is one of the devil's masterpieces.
Is it disbelief in loving? I am still an eternal child, wearing a disguise of age and smiling at good fortune, making the most of misfortune, and learning from it all; grateful for wisdom that comes with age. I can't get old; I'm working. It is to suffer this, And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel: Deep in our hidden heart Festers the dull remembrance of a change, But no emotion—none. It is to add, immured In the hot prison of the present, month To month with weary pain. You remember yourself in your prime, and wonder where that person went. The downward spiral has begun The musics hell on radio one The only thing, that's left to do Is to tune my dial to radio two.
Strong limbs become feeble, keen senses grow dull, hardy constitutions deteriorate. For women, for a period of time, we might even resist aging as we try our hardest to fight off wrinkles and hang on to the physical beauty of our faces. This stanza also speaks about what ones hopes, and expectations, of old age were, and how they have not been fulfilled. All my teeth have had to come out, And my diet I hate to think about. Our inner lives are eternal, which is to say that our spirits remain as youthful and vigorous as when we were in full bloom. The final choice is whether to give in to old age and its blows, both on mind and body, or whether to seek fulfillment from the understanding and knowledge gained from old age, depends entirely on the reader.
But thou knowest, Lord, that in the end I will need a few friends. Arnold is making the mistake of assuming that everyone feels as he does. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter. You find yourself asking, 'Well then, exactly what was it I was having—that interlude—the scrambly madness—all that time I had before? Keep me from the recital of endless details; give me wings to get to the point. Each day we achieve work done well and bestow good will and a smile upon a stranger, is reason to be happy, and seeing children doing well, marrying well; having children is to know a heart profoundly stirred. His poetry is known for its contemplation of isolation, the dwindling faith of his age, and his subtle style.
Is my journey that's for sure, Is death the only thing will cure. I do not know why so often atheists seem angry, bitter, enraged in old age. This question begins to ask about the physical degradation of aging. Grant me the patience to listen to the complaints of others; help me to endure them with charity. Arnold offers no redeeming benefit in growing old, and in experience and maturity, I see many benefits. The natural order becomes reversed.
But maturity is the glory of years. Forty years after I helped a 17 year old girl gain a personal relationship with Creator God, she wrote to thank me and sent a photo of her extended family. Where did the time go? Live your life to the full now, while you can. In reality, there is not the peace of a sunset that one might expect. He has not touched upon maturity, wisdom, spiritual brightness and so on! I do not know why some have to constantly insult and put the efforts of the young especially down; when they should nurture with the wisdom of the years. He is one of my favorites poets of the Victorian era because he had a way of writing things that left you slightly unsettled, a bit haunted, and therefore unforgettable.