Not till life’s heat has cooled,
The headlong rush slowed to a quiet pace,
And every purblind passion that had ruled
Our noisier years, at last,
Spurs us in vain, and, weary of the race,
We care no more who loses or who wins--
Ah! not till all the best of life seems past
The best of life begins.
To toil for only fame,
Hand-clappings and the fickle gusts of praise,
For place or power or gold to gild a name
Above the grave whereto
All paths will bring us, were to lose our days,
We on whose ears youth’s passing bell has tolled,
In blowing bubbles even as children do,
Forgetting we grow old.
But the world widens when
Such hope of trivial gain that ruled us lies
Broken among our childhood’s toys, for then
We win to self-control
And mail ourselves in manhood, and there rise
Upon us from the vast and windless height
Those clearer thoughts that are unto the soul
What stars are to the night.