1What is it to grow old?
2Is it to lose the glory of the form,
3The luster of the eye?
4Is it for beauty to forego her wreath?
5—Yes, but not this alone.
6Is it to feel our strength—
7Not our bloom only, but our strength—decay?
8Is it to feel each limb
9Grow stiffer, every function less exact,
10Each nerve more loosely strung?
11Yes, this, and more; but not
12Ah, ’tis not what in youth we dreamed ’twould be!
13’Tis not to have our life
14Mellowed and softened as with sunset glow,
15A golden day’s decline.
16’Tis not to see the world
17As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes,
18And heart profoundly stirred;
19And weep, and feel the fullness of the past,
20The years that are no more.
21It is to spend long days
22And not once feel that we were ever young;
23It is to add, immured
24In the hot prison of the present, month
25To month with weary pain.
26It is to suffer this,
27And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel.
28Deep in our hidden heart
29Festers the dull remembrance of a change,
30But no emotion—none.
31It is—last stage of all—
32When we are frozen up within, and quite
33The phantom of ourselves,
34To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost
35Which blamed the living man.
1What is it to grow old?
2Is it to lose the glory of the form,
3The luster of the eye?
4Is it for beauty to forego her wreath?
5—Yes, but not this alone.
6Is it to feel our strength—
7Not our bloom only, but our strength—decay?
8Is it to feel each limb
9Grow stiffer, every function less exact,
10Each nerve more loosely strung?
11Yes, this, and more; but not
12Ah, ’tis not what in youth we dreamed ’twould be!
13’Tis not to have our life
14Mellowed and softened as with sunset glow,
15A golden day’s decline.
16’Tis not to see the world
17As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes,
18And heart profoundly stirred;
19And weep, and feel the fullness of the past,
20The years that are no more.
21It is to spend long days
22And not once feel that we were ever young;
23It is to add, immured
24In the hot prison of the present, month
25To month with weary pain.
26It is to suffer this,
27And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel.
28Deep in our hidden heart
29Festers the dull remembrance of a change,
30But no emotion—none.
31It is—last stage of all—
32When we are frozen up within, and quite
33The phantom of ourselves,
34To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost
35Which blamed the living man.
What is it to grow old?
Is it to lose the glory of the form,
The luster of the eye?
Is it for beauty to forego her wreath?
—Yes, but not this alone.
Is it to feel our strength—
Not our bloom only, but our strength—decay?
Is it to feel each limb
Grow stiffer, every function less exact,
Each nerve more loosely strung?
Yes, this, and more; but not
Ah, ’tis not what in youth we dreamed ’twould be!
’Tis not to have our life
Mellowed and softened as with sunset glow,
A golden day’s decline.
’Tis not to see the world
As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes,
And heart profoundly stirred;
And weep, and feel the fullness of the past,
The years that are no more.
It is to spend long days
And not once feel that we were ever young;
It is to add, immured
In the hot prison of the present, month
To month with weary pain.
It is to suffer this,
And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel.
Deep in our hidden heart
Festers the dull remembrance of a change,
But no emotion—none.
It is—last stage of all—
When we are frozen up within, and quite
The phantom of ourselves,
To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost
Which blamed the living man.
Select any word below to get its definition in the context of the poem. The words are listed in the order in which they appear in the poem.
The Poet's Life and Work — Read a short biography of Matthew Arnold at the Poetry Foundation.
Arnold and the Victorian Era — Read an introduction to the literary and historical period with which Arnold is closely associated.
The Poem Aloud — Listen to a reading of "Growing Old."
More About the Poet — More information about, and poems by, Arnold at Poets.org.
The Poem in Context — Read "Growing Old" in an 1867 edition of Arnold's poems.