| |
| HOW little wisdom in how many years— | |
| How little wisdom and how much of pain! | |
| And now the slack knees tremble, the eye blears, | |
| And mist-wreaths blur the mirror of the brain. | |
| And Memory, in her niche, with fumbling fingers | 5 |
| Plucks at old dreams mislaid which crumble soon; | |
| And there is naught she touches now that lingers; | |
| And her lamp smokes and dims, a clouded moon. | |
| And Youth, a long way off, looks sidewise over | |
| Into the place of shadow, and stops singing | 10 |
| The immemorial lay of Love’s true lover; | |
| While, for a space, Hope’s hand grows tried of clinging | |
| To his limp hand, and droops careless and cold | |
| Along the grass—and even Youth seems old. | |
| |
| And even Youth seems old?… But Youth is old, | 15 |
| Old as the springtide, as the April flowers. | |
| Youth’s infinite history is a tale thrice told— | |
| Aeons but mask them in Youth’s counted hours. | |
| That rosebud, and the dew upon that rose, | |
| Lack but the memory of all ages past; | 20 |
| The wavering snowflake knows not—but God knows | |
| The winters it has lasted and shall last! | |
| Yes, Youth is old … and Age is ever young— | |
| A new thing in its season, a new thing; | |
| New, and more terrible than ever tongue | 25 |
| Of fool or poet has dared to say or sing! | |
| Yet not more terrible than Youth, that seems | |
| A dreamer’s dream of some dead dreamer’s dreams. | |
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