When I Am Old

WHEN I am old, half-blind and ill,
Done with life but having still
Some small change to spend of days
Before I go my various ways
Back to sea and earth and air;
When my bones are all but bare
And the doctor shakes his head
Behind my back, beside my bed,
And I feel the wind it makes
However guardedly he shakes:
I mean to ask some patient friend
To read to me, from end to end,
Boswell’s Johnson. When he’s through
I shall ask for Chaucer, too,
Till my dwindled list of friends
Have reached, in turn, repeated ends.
Then nephews I’ll recruit , and nieces.
I’ll refuse to go to pieces.
At least, I shall not go until
Of Chaucer I have had my fill,
And, perhaps, my nieces theirs.

Then, quietly, I’ll say my prayers,
Prepare to go; but, when resigned,
Conrad’s Youth will come to mind;
Heart of Darkness, End of the Tether,
And I will, surely, wonder whether
The end of mine is yet in sight,
To find it’s not. With old delight
I shall find myself again
On Boston Common — nineteen-ten;
On the bench where first I read
Lord Jim, and failed to go to bed
Till another day had passed
On a fast that was no fast.

Reawakened memories
Of countless other reading bees
Will so fortify and strengthen
That my passing hours will lengthen
Into days, perhaps, or weeks.
New blood will flush my withered cheeks.
New life will shine from my old eyes
Turned to where George Borrow lies,
Or, rather, stands upon his shelf.
Taking stock of my new self
I shall put the parting day
At least “a Borrow-while” away.

Then, perhaps, a voice will call
From a niche against the wall:
“Read Joyce and be exceeding glad!”
And, maybe, I will wish I had,
And think: “But now I really must!”
Till my revived complaining dust
Objects: “The pages aren’t cut.
Leave them, and the covers, shut.
Stick to friends that stick to you
And thus your lease on life renew.”

This advice I mean to take
For my own and for their sake.
Let the doctor shake his head:
The old decrepit man in bed,
Getting younger every day
Will, presently, go out to play
With little Louis Stevenson;
Immortal days, immortal fun.
Up the ladder, over the wall;
Through the Garden, down the hall,
Out the door, across the lawn,
Keeping easy pace with dawn,
Till, across the loneliest seas
We reach the lost Hesperides
Where never doctor shakes his head
And no one ever lies in bed.