FIELDS are green in the early light,

When Morning treads on the skirts of Night

Fields are gray when the sun's gone west,

Like a clerk from the City in search of rest.

"Flesh," they tell us, "is only grass

And that is the reason it comes to pass

That mortals change in a life's long day

From the young and green to the old and gray.

Not long since—as it seems to me—

I was as youthful as youth could be:

Cramming my noddle, as young folks do,

With a thousand things more nice than true.

Now this noddle of mine looks strange,

With its plenty of silver—and no small change!—

Surely I came the swiftest way

From the young and green to the old and gray.

Though the day be a changeful thing

In winter and summer, autumn and spring;

Days in December and days in June

Both seem finish'd a deal too soon.

Twilight shadows come closing in,

And the calmest, placidest hours begin:

The closing scenes of the piece we play

From the young and green to the old and gray.