Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.
I will never be an old man. To me, old age is always 15 years older than I am.
Old age is not a disease – it is strength and survivorship, triumph over all kinds of vicissitudes and disappointments, trials and illnesses.
Old age is not a matter for sorrow. It is matter for thanks if we have left our work done behind us.
Childhood itself is scarcely more lovely than a cheerful, kindly, sunshiny old age.
Not everything in old age is grim. I haven’t walked through an airport for years, and wheelchairs are the way to travel.
Old age is a shipwreck.
Filth and old age, I’m sure you will agree, are powerful wardens upon chastity.
New poems no longer come to me with their prodigies of metaphor and assonance. Prose endures. I feel the circles grow smaller, and old age is a ceremony of losses, which is, on the whole, preferable to dying at forty-seven or fifty-two.
Bashfulness is an ornament to youth, but a reproach to old age.