Growing Old Her brick is crumbling as the wind blows past With force which even Thor could not have thought to cast. Shall time, then, wear away what men still hope? Cannot we wish to save her, perhaps still cope With what ancient time still sends against our every effort? Each effort which we make instills more comfort That we may produce a house of brick which time won't touch But say not that we'll make a better crutch Than she has been to me and all who knew her; In the days when she was young - Oh! how I remember! Love - Is love not that sweet knowledge of her Which lets me know yet the beauty which time, In infinite gentleness, has wrought; a crime Which no mortal henchman could have compassed well.