Two earlier poems along (sort of) similar lines are "Forfending Every Fable" posted here on 11 December 2019 and (written about fifty years ago) "My Living" posted here on 3 September 2013.
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How short it is when’s gone,
That blossom, swell and setting,
Is soonest blown and dun;
The girl that flings her tresses,
The boy that leaps in health,
Both mourn their shrivelled faces,
Time-decayed by stealth.
So hey for the springtime footings,
For the summer’s growth and hugs,
For autumn’s lap-filled gettings,
Even winter’s ice and fogs;
But loath the skin in tatters,
The hand at rest that shakes,
For men are nature’s debtors,
And must pay for all that breaks.
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© March 2020
