They became so pithy and rounded of corners. Old age seemed to sit gracefully but briefly in his work. Lines became shorter, rhythms more compressed. I read this today and wondered if my old age would reach such a light-filled vision:
Old Age's Lambent Peaks
The touch of flame--the illuminating fire--the loftiest look at last,
O'er city, passion, sea--o'er prairie, mountain, wood--the earth itself,
The airy, different, changing hues of all, in failing twilight,
Objects and groups, bearings, faces, reminiscences;
The calmer sight--the golden setting, clear and broad:
So much i' the atmosphere, the points of view, the situations whence
we scan,
Bro't out by them alone--so much (perhaps the best) unreck'd before;
The lights indeed from them--old age's lambent peaks.