on hearing french children speak french

Children — a well-known circumstance —
Speak French extremely well in France;
Their accent, to the wondering ear,
Is perfect, and their diction clear.

But when I watch them at their play,
They might be kids in Deal, N. J.
Like girls and boys one sees about
At home, they tumble, run, and shout;
Like others of their age and ilk,
They dote on sweets, they thrive on milk;
They are, their mothers sadly sigh,
Petits bébés, as here they’re styled,
Cry very like my neighbor’s child.

I, noting thus what’s said and done,
Judge the world is, or should be, one;
It is the planet’s blackest blot
That it should be — and that it’s not.

(From The New Yorker, October 29, 1949)

note on geriatrics

Few people know how to be old — La Rochefoucauld

Very few, so we are told,
Are skilled at all in being old,
And of those few, few will admit
To age, whatso they make of it,
And when they do admit it, sadly,
They act their years but do it badly.
Midnight, when they should be abed,
They’re mostly on the town instead;
Their passions, which should now be
Quiet,
Break out anew in ill-timed riot;
The elders they should drowse among
They snub, to gambol with the young.
An old man is not, as a rule,
Too old to be much less a fool.

But as one looks about, one fears
Few manage well their middle years,
Or are, in their pretended prime,
Clever with love or wealth or time.
How awkward, too, and how uncouth,
The young are in their use of youth,
And babes, as anyone can see,
Make shambles of their infancy.

The old mess up their day, but, oh,
They’re not alone, La Rochefoucauld!

(From The New Yorker, February 21, 1953)