by Donald Hall

    To grow old is to lose everything.

    Aging， everybody knows it.

    Even when we are young，

    we glimpse it sometimes， and nod our heads

    when a grandfather dies.

    Then we row for years on the midsummer

    pond， ignorant and content. But a marriage，

    that began without harm， scatters

    into debris on the shore，

    and a friend from school drops

    cold on a rocky strand.

    If a new love carries us

    past middle age， our wife will die

    at her strongest and most beautiful.

    New women come and go. All go.

    The pretty lover who announces

    that she is temporary

    is temporary. The bold woman，

    middle-aged against our old age，

    sinks under an anxiety she cannot withstand.

    Another friend of decades estranges himself

    in words that pollute thirty years.

    Let us stifle under mud at the pond's edge

    and affirm that it is fitting

    and delicious to lose everything.