All the world’s a forest
And all the men and women merely trees
They blossom and fall
And one man in his time turns many shades
His growth in seven stages. At first infancy,
Fragile, vulnerable, pushing through the soil.
Then, the youth, with slender branches
And pointed top, stretching like a cat
Slowly to the sky. And then the prime of life,
Full like heart, with vivid leaves
Mistaken for emeralds. Then, middle age
With new traits and a flattened crown,
still growing unique,
An old dog learning new tricks. And then, a senior,
With sparse branches and dead weight,
Systems down, with aching limbs
And so he fulfills his stage. The sixth age shifts
Into barren and withered twilight,
Shrunken down, unsound,
They usually don’t go in a hurry.
Last stage of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is the last life, pure ashes
No branches, no bark, nothing.

Rene Fong ’19