The Seven Ages of Walking
All the world’s a hill,
And all the men and women merely walkers;
They have their descents and their approach walks,
And one man in his time makes many hikes,
His walks being seven ages. At first, the toddler,
Mewling and puking in his parent’s papoose.
Then the ambler, with his day-sack
And shining morning boots, creeping like snail
Unendingly to the summit. And then the rambler,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his aching blisters. Then a scrambler,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Upon the jagged rocks. And then the hillwalker,
In fair round belly with Kendal mint cake lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and kit advice;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered sunday walker
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, despite the lycra, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second walklessness and mere oblivion,
Sans boots, sans kit, sans hills, sans everything.