Isn’t the last line it the poem the essence of the gospel? We are promised that we can make each day count, and that even after death, we are saying will continue to strive, to seek, and not to yield.

I have no doubt you have lots of great and worthy things, here on earth and in the eternities.

Conversation with my friend was sparked in part because during this past year, the skin on my hands and arms has abruptly become that thin, crepey, finely wrinkled skin of the elderly. The change was so sudden that there’s no denying that time is running out, that what “abides” isn’t the “strength of old.” I need to persuade myself that the last line of Tennyson’s poem can also be true.

I am struggling to forgive someone. Knowing that I can wait out the pain in this immediate moment, and let time heal me, helps me calm my frustrations. I have time enough that I can gain perspective, rather than forcing myself to pretend that all is well. My forgiveness will be more real and lasting when I have given myself permission to work on forgiving a little bit here and a little bit there.

There are blessings that I want for my husband and me. There are relationships I want to have with my siblings, that are not important to them. There are things I want to share with my children, to help them understand a divorce that they didn’t see coming.

None of those things are happening now. If I spend too much energy trying to force them to happen, I am likely to push people farther away. Instead, being patient and letting time and space apart give all of us distance from those events. By allowing everyone a perspective that isn’t immediate, gives us a chance to prayerfully and thoughtfully build new relationships if we want. Saving is from seeing life as something we must do right now, is one of the blessings that time gives us.

But, seriously, this is just one more reminder–along with my odometer turning over again in a few day–that I ought to get busy and do something. Thanks.

Please pardon the length; I’ve edited it somewhat, but the essence is here. As I grow older and grayer, I have come to love this poem. It is never too late for a new beginning.

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an agèd wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades2
Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved…

…..

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought
with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Alfred,Lord Tennyson (1809-1892) 1833