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| WHEN I was young the twilight seemed too long, | |
| How often on the western window seat | |
| I leaned my book against the misty pane | |
| And spelled the last enchanting lines again, | |
| The while my mother hummed an ancient song, | 5 |
| Or sighed a little and said: “The hour is sweet!” | |
| When I, rebellious, clamoured for the light. | |
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| But now I love the soft approach of night, | |
| And now with folded hands I sit and dream | |
| While all too fleet the hours of twilight seem; | 10 |
| And thus I know that I am growing old. | |
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| O granaries of Age! O manifold | |
| And royal harvest of the common years! | |
| There are in all thy treasure-house no ways | |
| But lead by soft descent and gradual slope | 15 |
| To memories more exquisite than Hope. | |
| Thine is the Iris born of olden tears, | |
| And thrice more happy are the happy days | |
| That live divinely in thy lingering rays. | |
| So autumn roses bear a lovelier flower; | 20 |
| So in the emerald after-sunset hour | |
| The orchard wall and trembling aspen trees | |
| Appear an infinite Hesperides. | |
| Ay, as at dusk we sit with folded hands, | |
| Who knows, who cares in what enchanted lands | 25 |
| We wander while the undying memories throng? | |
| When I was young the twilight seemed too long. | |
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