Long time a child, and still a child, when years

Had painted manhood on my cheek, was I,—

For yet I lived like one not born to die;

A thriftless prodigal of smiles and tears,

No hope I needed, and I knew no fears.

But sleep, though sweet, is only sleep, and waking,

I waked to sleep no more, at once o’ertaking

The vanguard of my age, with all arrears

Of duty on my back. Nor child, nor man,

Nor youth, nor sage, I find my head is grey,

For I have lost the race I never ran:

A rathe December blights my lagging May;

And still I am a child, tho’ I be old,

Time is my debtor for my years untold.

Old poetry seldom ages. A link to learn more about this poet is here. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hartley_Coleridge

Old poetry