Merlin

Old men forget, and I was born too old
To feel, or to remember what was felt
In younger days I never had. The cold
Blood flowing in my veins would never melt,
Nor did I recollect a time it could.
I live, and lived, in age beyond my years
Counting the longer vision always good
And shorter joys ephemeral. My fears
Were ever of a life untimely wasted,
Not of the joys still covered and untasted;
I lived in knowledge of mortality
And constant search of comfort and of rest.
I do not mellow toward maturity
But from it, and toward energy and zest.