WHEN I AM OLD

I OFTEN think that when I’m old and grey, Mechanically living through each day, That when like all the rest I’ve found my groove With little room for heart or mind to move, But just enough to eat and work and dress; And keep a failing temper more or less— In tired sleep I’ll sometimes creep away Back down the years to some old Oxford way. And on this daisied lawn again I’ll lie, And listen while the river folk go by; And through the trees I’ll sometimes see the flash Of punters’ poles and hear the rhythmic splash Of oars; and over there again I’ll see The petalled path beneath the cherry-tree, And love the hawthorn scent, the cuckoo’s cry, And Magdalen chiming while the spring runs by. And you’ll be there, dear phantom friend, and you, And you familiar faces that I knew So well; and toward the ending of the day We’ll sit and talk—the old accustomed way, Till in the mutual calm we’ll see unfurled The immeasurable vastness of the world And I shall dream of all that I will do With Life—and so will you, and you and you.