by Robert Browning

    Grow old along with me！

    The best is yet to be，

    The last of life， for which the first was made：

    Our times are in His hand

    Who saith， 'A whole I planned，

    Youth shows but half； trust God： see all， nor be afraid！'

    Not that， amassing¹ flowers，

    Youth sighed， 'Which rose make ours，

    Which lily leave and then as best recall？'

    Not that， admiring stars，

    It yearned²， 'Nor Jove， nor Mars；

    Mine be some figured flame which blends， transcends³ them all！'

    Not for such hopes and fears

    Annulling⁴ youth's brief years，

    Do I remonstrate⁵： folly⁶ wide the mark！

    Rather I prize the doubt

    Low kinds exist without，

    Finished and finite clods， untroubled by a spark.

    Poor vaunt of life indeed，

    Were man but formed to feed

    On joy， to solely⁷ seek and find and feast；

    Such feasting ended， then

    As sure an end to men；

    Irks care the crop-full bird？ Frets⁸ doubt the maw-crammed beast？

    Rejoice we are allied⁹

    To That which doth provide

    And not partake， effect and not receive！

    A spark disturbs our clod；

    Nearer we hold of God

    Who gives， than of His tribes that take， I must believe.

    Then， welcome each rebuff

    That turns earth's smoothness rough，

    Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go！

    Be our joys three-parts pain！

    Strive， and hold cheap the strain；

    Learn， nor account the pang¹⁰； dare， never grudge¹¹ the throe！

    For thence，-a paradox¹²

    Which comforts while it mocks，

    Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail：

    What I aspired¹³ to be，

    And was not， comforts me：

    A brute¹⁴ I might have been， but would not sink i' the scale.

    What is he but a brute

    Whose flesh has soul to suit，

    Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play？

    To man， propose this test

    Thy body at its best，

    How far can that project thy soul on its lone¹⁵ way？

    Yet gifts should prove their use：

    I own the Past profuse¹⁶

    Of power each side， perfection every turn：

    Eyes， ears took in their dole¹⁷，

    Brain treasured up the whole；

    Should not the heart beat once 'How good to live and learn'？

    Not once beat 'Praise be thine！

    I see the whole design，

    I， who saw power， see now love perfect too：

    Perfect I call thy plan：

    Thanks that I was a man！

    Maker¹⁸， remake， complete，-I trust what Thou shalt do！'

    For pleasant is this flesh；

    Our soul， in its rose-mesh

    Pulled ever to the earth， still yearns¹⁹ for rest：

    Would we some prize might hold

    To match those manifold

    Possessions of the brute，-gain most， as we did best！

    Let us not always say，

    'Spite of this flesh to-day

    I strove， made head， gained ground upon the whole！'

    As the bird wings and sings，

    Let us cry， 'All good things

    Are ours， nor soul helps flesh more， now， than flesh helps soul！'

    Therefore I summon age

    To grant youth's heritage，

    Life's struggle having so far reached its term：

    Thence shall I pass， approved

    A man， for aye removed

    From the developed brute； a god though in the germ.

    And I shall thereupon

    Take rest， ere I be gone

    Once more on my adventure brave and new：

    Fearless and unperplexed，

    When I wage battle next，

    What weapons to select， what armour²⁰ to indue.

    Youth ended， I shall try

    My gain or loss thereby²¹；

    Leave the fire ashes， what survives is gold：

    And I shall weigh the same，

    Give life its praise or blame：

    Young， all lay in dispute； I shall know， being old.

    For， note when evening shuts，

    A certain moment cuts

    The deed off， calls the glory from the grey：

    A whisper from the west

    Shoots-'Add this to the rest，

    Take it and try its worth： here dies another day.'

    So， still within this life，

    Though lifted o'er its strife²²，

    Let me discern， compare， pronounce at last，

    'This rage was right i' the main，

    That acquiescence²⁴ vain：

    The Future I may face now I have proved the Past.'

    For more is not reserved

    To man， with soul just nerved

    To act to-morrow what he learns to-day：

    Here， work enough to watch

    The Master work， and catch

    Hints of the proper craft， tricks of the tool's true play.

    As it was better， youth

    Should strive， through acts uncouth²⁵，

    Toward making， than repose²⁶ on aught found made：

    So， better， age， exempt²⁷

    From strife， should know， than tempt²⁸

    Further. Thou waitedst age： wait death nor be afraid！

    Enough now， if the Right

    And Good and Infinite

    Be named here， as thou callest thy hand thine own，

    With knowledge absolute，

    Subject to no dispute

    From fools that crowded youth， nor let thee feel alone.

    Be there， for once and all，

    Severed²⁹ great minds from small，

    Announced to each his station in the Past！

    Was I， the world arraigned³⁰，

    Were they， my soul disdained³¹，

    Right？ Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last！

    Now， who shall arbitrate？

    Ten men love what I hate，

    Shun³² what I follow， slight what I receive；

    Ten， who in ears and eyes

    Match me： we all surmise³³，

    They， this thing， and I， that： whom shall my soul believe？

    Not on the vulgar mass

    Called 'work'， must sentence pass，

    Things done， that took the eye and had the price；

    O'er which， from level stand，

    The low world laid its hand，

    Found straightway to its mind， could value in a trice：

    But all， the world's coarse thumb

    And finger failed to plumb³⁴，

    So passed in making up the main account；

    All instinct immature³⁵，

    All purposes unsure，

    That weighed not as his work， yet swelled³⁶ the man's amount：

    Thoughts hardly to be packed

    Into a narrow act，

    Fancies that broke through language and escaped；

    All I could never be，

    All， men ignored in me，

    This， I was worth to God， whose wheel the pitcher³⁷ shaped.

    Ay， note that Potter's wheel，

    That metaphor³⁸！ and feel

    Why time spins fast， why passive lies our clay，-

    Thou， to whom fools propound³⁹，

    When the wine makes its round，

    'Since life fleets， all is change； the Past gone， seize to-day！'

    Fool！ All that is， at all，

    Lasts ever， past recall；

    Earth changes， but thy soul and God stand sure：

    What entered into thee，

    That was， is， and shall be：

    Time's wheel runs back or stops： Potter and clay endure.

    He fixed⁴⁰ thee mid⁴¹ this dance

    Of plastic circumstance，

    This Present， thou， forsooth， wouldst fain arrest：

    Machinery⁴² just meant

    To give thy souls its bent⁴³，

    Try thee and turn thee forth⁴⁴， sufficiently⁴⁵ impressed.

    What though the earlier grooves⁴⁶

    Which ran the laughing loves

    Around thy base， no longer pause and press？

    What though about thy rim⁴⁷，

    Skull-things in order grim

    Grow out， in graver mood， obey the sterner stress？

    Look not thou down but up！

    To uses of a cup，

    The festal board， lamp's flash， and trumpet's peal⁴⁸，

    The new wine's foaming⁴⁹ flow，

    The Master's lips a-glow！

    Thou， heaven's consummate⁵⁰ cup， what need'st thou with earth's wheel？

    But I need， now as then，

    Thee， God， who mouldest men；

    And since， not even while the whirl was worst，

    Did I-to the wheel of life

    With shapes and colours rife²³，

    Bound dizzily，-mistake my end， to slake⁵¹ Thy thirst：

    So， take and use Thy work，

    Amend⁵² what flaws may lurk⁵³，

    What strain o' the stuff， what warpings past the aim！

    My times be in Thy hand！

    Perfect the cup as planned！

    Let age approve of youth， and death complete the same！

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