 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
209
TIMON
The world is not grown old,
Nor weary, nor afraid;
It is as bright, as bold,
As when it first was made;
Nor weary, nor afraid;
It is as bright, as bold,
As when it first was made;
Its hope as warmly burns,
Its faith as clear, as high;
On whom it loves it turns
A strong rewarding eye.
Its faith as clear, as high;
On whom it loves it turns
A strong rewarding eye.
And if I think its mirth
Is rude, ungenerous grown,
Its idols things of earth,—
The loss is all mine own.
Is rude, ungenerous grown,
Its idols things of earth,—
The loss is all mine own.
So if I creep away
To woods and rippling streams
To ponder or to pray,
To dream my sickly dreams,
To woods and rippling streams
To ponder or to pray,
To dream my sickly dreams,
It waves a kind good-bye,
It smiles a careless smile,
Then turns, alert to fly
O'er many a dusty mile.
It smiles a careless smile,
Then turns, alert to fly
O'er many a dusty mile.
210
My woes it soon forgets
In laughter, love, and wine,
Mine are the weak regrets,
The loss, the shame is mine.
In laughter, love, and wine,
Mine are the weak regrets,
The loss, the shame is mine.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |