Time was I thought of growing up,
But that was ere the babies came;
I’d dream and plan to be a man
And win my share of wealth and fame,
For age held all the splendors then
And wisdom seemed lifes brightest crown
For mortal brow. It’s different now.
Each evening finds me growing down.
I’m not so keen for growing up
To wrinkled cheek and heavy tongue,
And sluggish blood; with little Bud
I long to be a comrade young.
His sports are joys I want to share,
His games are games I want to play,
An old man grim’s no chum for him
And so I’m growing down to-day.
I’m back to marbles and to tops,
To flying kites and one-ol’-cat;
‘Fan acres!’ I now loudly cry;
I also take my turn at bat;
I’ve had my fling at growing up
And want no old man’s fair renown.
To be a boy is finer joy,
And so I’ve started growing down.
Once more I’m learning games I knew
When I was four and five and six,
I’m going back along life’s track
To find the same old-fashioned tricks,
And happy are the hours we spend
Together, without sigh or frown.
To be a boy is Age’s joy,
And so to him I’m growing down.
Other works by Edgar Albert Guest...
