Age does not depend upon years, but upon temperament and health.

"Age does not depend upon years, but upon temperament and health. Some men are born old, and some never grow so." These words of Tryon Edwards, a minister and moral philosopher of the 19th century, are not a mere reflection on the body’s decay, but a revelation of the spirit’s eternal youth. They speak not of wrinkles upon the skin, but of wrinkles upon the soul. For true age, as he teaches, lies not in the turning of the seasons, but in the dimming of the inner flame that burns within man — the flame of curiosity, vitality, and courage. Many who walk the earth with white hair still possess hearts that leap like those of children, while others, though young in years, carry within them the dust of spiritual weariness.

From the earliest ages of man, the wise have known this truth. The ancient Greeks spoke of psychē, the immortal soul, which does not age as the body does. To them, youth was a quality of energy and delight — the divine fire of Prometheus that makes humanity daring and creative. One may recall Socrates, who, though old and frail when he faced his death, radiated a spirit untouched by despair. His laughter, his love of inquiry, his serenity before fate — these were the signs of a man who never grew old. His temperament and inner harmony made him eternally young, even as his body succumbed to time.

Consider also the tale of Mozart, who, though he left the world at the tender age of thirty-five, lived with the joy and playfulness of an eternal child. His heart leapt with music; his eyes saw beauty where others saw silence. Such a man, though short-lived, was ageless — his vitality transcended the years. Compare him to those who, though not yet middle-aged, have allowed fear, cynicism, and bitterness to calcify their spirits. They are “born old,” as Edwards says — their hearts closed before life could teach them to open.

To be “born old” is a tragedy of the soul. It is to face the world without wonder, to greet the sunrise as a burden instead of a gift. Such a man sees no glory in struggle, no sweetness in discovery, no laughter in failure. He has killed youth within himself, though the years have not yet claimed him. But the one who “never grows old” carries in his breast the breath of spring — he greets each dawn with gratitude, learns as if for the first time, and loves as though love were an eternal secret. He does not deny age; he transforms it into wisdom.

History has shown that youth of spirit is the fountain from which all greatness flows. Leonardo da Vinci, in his later years, would still study the flight of birds with the awe of a child, sketching wings that might one day carry man through the skies. Nelson Mandela, after decades in a prison cell, emerged not with the bitterness of age but with the patience and optimism of youth — a man renewed by faith and purpose. Such spirits remind us that the true measure of a life is not counted in years, but in the passion that fills them.

Let every man and woman, then, examine their own heart. Ask not, “How many years have I lived?” but “How deeply have I loved? How joyfully have I learned? How courageously have I faced the day?” These are the true questions of age. For temperament — the balance of courage and serenity — and health, both of body and soul, are the guardians of our inner youth. A cheerful spirit, a thankful heart, a curious mind — these are the elixirs of immortality.

Therefore, O seeker of truth, preserve your youth not by fleeing time, but by embracing life. Cultivate strength in body, but more so in spirit. Walk often beneath the sun, laugh with friends, forgive freely, and labor in pursuits that make your heart sing. Let no bitterness settle in your bones. Let your eyes remain wide to the beauty that still unfolds. For though the body may wither, the soul that loves life never grows old.

And when the twilight of your years comes, may you greet it not with sorrow, but with the quiet joy of one who has truly lived — ageless in heart, luminous in spirit, and still, even in the dusk of days, young before the eyes of eternity.