When the hair about the temples starts to show the signs of gray,
And a fellow realizes that he's wandering far away
From the pleasures of his boyhood and his youth, and never more
Will know the joy of laughter as he did in days of yore,
Oh, it's then he starts to thinking of a stubby little lad
With a face as brown as berries and a soul supremely glad.

When a gray-haired dreamer wanders down the lanes of memory
And forgets the living present for the time of "used-to-be,"
He takes off his shoes and stockings, and he throws his coat away,
And he's free from all restrictions, save the rules of manly play.
He may be in richest garments, but bareheaded in the sun
He forgets his proud successes and the riches he has won.

Oh, there's not a man alive but that would give his all to be
The stubby little fellow that in dreamland he can see,
And the splendors that surround him and the joys about him spread
Only seem to rise to taunt him with the boyhood that has fled.
When the hair about the temples starts to show
Time's silver stain,
Then the richest man that's living yearns to be a boy again.

- Edgar A. Guest

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