I'm the fly in the ointment here. The older I get, the more I feel:

"There’s not a joy the world can give like that it takes away,
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling’s dull decay;
Tis not on youth’s smooth cheek the blush alone which fades so fast,
But the tender bloom of hear is gone ere youth itself be past.


Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness,
Are driven over the shoals of guilt or oceans of excess;
The magnet of their course is gone or only points in vain,
The shore to which their shivered sail shall never stretch again.


Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;
It cannot feel for others’ woes it dare not dream its ...

I'm the fly in the ointment here. The older I get, the more I feel:

"There’s not a joy the world can give like that it takes away,
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling’s dull decay;
Tis not on youth’s smooth cheek the blush alone which fades so fast,
But the tender bloom of hear is gone ere youth itself be past.


Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness,
Are driven over the shoals of guilt or oceans of excess;
The magnet of their course is gone or only points in vain,
The shore to which their shivered sail shall never stretch again.


Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;
It cannot feel for others’ woes it dare not dream its own;
That heavy chill has frozen over the fountain of our tears,
And though the eye may sparkle still tis where the ice appears.


Though wit may flash from fluent lips and mirth distract the breast,
Through midnight hours that yield no more their form hope of rest;
Tis but as ivy leaves around the ruined turret wreathed,
All green and wildly flesh without but worn and grey beneath.


Oh could I feel as I have felt or be what I have been,
Or weep as I could once have wept over many a vanish scene.
As springs in the deserts found seem sweet all brackish though they be,
So midst the withered waste of my life those tears would flow to me".

Byron

THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;--
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

II

The Rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the Rose,
The Moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare,
Waters on a starry night
...

THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;--
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

II

The Rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the Rose,
The Moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare,
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

III

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong:
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every Beast keep holiday;--
Thou Child of Joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy
Shepherd-boy!

V

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature's...

V

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature's Priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.


From "Ode:Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood", William Wordsworth