by Edgar Guest
Time was I thought of growing up,
but that was e’er the babies came;
I’d dream and plan to be a man
and win my share of wealth and fame.
For age held all the splendors then
and wisdom seemed life’s brightest crown
for mortal brow. It’s different now.
Each evening finds me growing down.
I’m not so keen for growing up
to wrinkled cheek and heavy tongue
and sluggish blood; with little Bud
I long to be a comrade young.
His sports are joys I want to share;
his games are games I want to play.
An old man grim’s no chum for him
and so I’m growing down today.
I’m back to marbles and to tops,
to flying kites and one-ol’-cat;
“Fan acres!” I now loudly cry;
I also take my turn at bat.
I’ve had my fling at growing up
and want no old man’s fair renown.
To be a boy is finer joy,
and so I’ve started growing down.
Once more I’m learning games I knew
when I was four and five and six,
I’m going back along life’s track
to find the same old-fashioned tricks
and happy are the hours we spend
together, without sigh or frown.
To be a boy is age’s joy,
and so to him I’m growing down.
From the book Just Folks
© 1917 by the Reilly & Lee Company
I’m dedicating this to all the Grandpas and Grandmas among my readers. We know that “Growing Down” is even more pronounced when the grands come along. 🙂