From Morituri Salutamus

Whatever poet, orator, or sage
May say of it, old age is still old age
It is the waning, not the crescent moon
The dusk of evening, not the blaze of noon
It is not strength, but weakness; not desire
But its surcease; not the fierce heat of fire
The burning and consuming element
But that of ashes and of embers spent
In which some living sparks we still discern
Enough to warm, but not enough to burn

What then? Shall we sit idly down and say
The night hath come; it is no longer day?
The night hath not yet come; we are not quite
Cut off from labour by the failing light
Something remains for us to do or dare
Even the oldest tree some fruit may bear
Not Oedipus Coloneus or Greek Ode
Or tales of pilgrims that one morning rode
Out of the gateway of the Tabard Inn,
But other something, would we but begin
For age is opportunity no less
Than youth itself, though in another dress
And as the evening twilight fades away
The sky is filled with stars invisible by day

             --- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow