With amusement, it is with unbelief I see

Hard-heeled, black-haired men walk gray,

The flesh soft below the eyes and jaw,

Who look like their fathers, and say

That they were thirty only yesterday.

I was thirty half my life ago,

And am no son, because my father's dead.

They lie to one another. Not to me.

As old as once he was, I am. Nothing odd

That my brown hair is gray on my head.

I never saw him young, nor does he know

What I have come to, nor shall I see

My gray sons, nor my daughter middle-aged.

No hope, but no lie. It should be,

And it is not, honor enough for me.