Maybe we have grown weak like trees
With great spread and solemn shadow
But dry to the roots and creaking in the breeze.
Maybe we have grown old and learned
And full of autumnal wisdom
And words like withered leaves.
Maybe we are cynical and hope for nothing
But a good fire to warm our chilly feet.
Maybe our eyes are dim and full of moisture
And look for soothing beauty, restful things
Like Connemara hills in summertime.
Maybe our ears abhor the outside rumblings
The not-rhyming sounds of human voices
The blows and counter-blows of striving life.
Maybe our hands are thin,
And shrink from touching all that is unchiselled
Seeking the comfort of curves already fashioned.
Maybe we have seen, heard, smelt, touched,
Thought everything and want to die.
Maybe We Have Grown Weak 1939