But years multiply cares.

Age increases heaviness.

Time destroys its own children.

The poet says: "In youth we carry the world like Atlas; in maturity we stoop and bend beneath it; in age it crushes us to the ground." For the overtaxed and invalided, the dew-drops do not sparkle as diamonds; the wet grass suggests red flannels and cough sirups.

For the nervous the bird's song is a meaningless chatter.