Life is a laggard when we are young,
   And the joys ahead that we long to taste.
With our fights unfought and our songs unsung,
   Life is a laggard who will not haste.
How our eager hands reach forward then,
Impatient boys who would fain be men.

The Twenties vanish 'mid scant regret,
   But the pace improves as the Thirties loom.
And there's much to do, and there's much to get;
   We would linger now in this pleasant room.
But Life waits not; and we mark afar
The door of the Forties set ajar.

Forty, fifty have come and gone,
   And life puts on his running shoes.
Faster and faster he hastens on
   As if there were never an hour to lose.
And we cry to him, "Stay!  For the way grows dark!"
But he flees headlong to the sixty mark.

Is life a cheat?  Is his course nigh run,
   Who was once so laggard?  For soon the race
Speeds to its finish, tho' scarce begun . . . .
   What count they now to us -- time or space
Or the speed of a runner so swiftly spent?
Life is a dreaming.  We go, content.

"Den"
Herald, 7 September 1934, p6