This Book is written by Arthur Osborne.
The frosty years have in their grip
This ailing body that at last
Into Death’s refuse-bin must slip.
Then let it go,
Quick be it or slow,
Like autumn flower in wintry blast.
For I have drunk youth’s elixir,
His joy made firm, his follies fled.
Life like a May-day chorister
Throbs into song.
The heart, grown strong,
Dances and sings where grief lies dead.
This world and body are not me.
They are a dream from which to wake.
Whatever in their fate may be
Cannot destroy The vibrant joy
Or turn to night the bright daybreak.
When even imperfect sight can bring
Such joyful certitude as this,
Who to the seeming self would cling,
In a barren land where no birds sing,
Lost to Awareness, Being, Bliss?