The Finding of The Book and Other Poems By William Alexander |
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YOUTH RENEWED |
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 | The Finding of The Book and Other Poems |  |
119
YOUTH RENEWED
Yes; with heavy dashing
Of a shower just shed
On the gloomy beech-tree,
Wet were leaves o'erhead.
Wet were all the roses
On the garden wire,
Wet were all the cornfield's
Flakes of yellow fire.
Of a shower just shed
On the gloomy beech-tree,
Wet were leaves o'erhead.
Wet were all the roses
On the garden wire,
Wet were all the cornfield's
Flakes of yellow fire.
By the gloomy beech-tree,
By the rose o'er-blowing,
Looking on the cornfields
Whence the gold was going,
Walked I sadly thinking,
‘I am no more young,’
When among the dripping
Leaves a wild bird sung.
By the rose o'er-blowing,
Looking on the cornfields
Whence the gold was going,
Walked I sadly thinking,
‘I am no more young,’
When among the dripping
Leaves a wild bird sung.
120
Ah! I thought, it chanted
Some immortal strain
Of a silver sunshine
Coming after rain;
Of a richer flushing
On a finer rose;
Of a tint more golden
Than the autumn knows.
Some immortal strain
Of a silver sunshine
Coming after rain;
Of a richer flushing
On a finer rose;
Of a tint more golden
Than the autumn knows.
Yes; with sorrow wetted
In life's autumn day,
Is the cheek full often
When the hair grows gray:
All the leaves and blossoms
Drip with rain of tears,
And the sheaves lie sodden
On the field of years.
In life's autumn day,
Is the cheek full often
When the hair grows gray:
All the leaves and blossoms
Drip with rain of tears,
And the sheaves lie sodden
On the field of years.
Then a sweet bird singeth
Of a joy that lies
In the grief that's truer
Happiness in disguise;
Sings of youth more lasting,
Sunlight more divine—
Gentle bird, sweet Spirit,
What a song is thine!
Of a joy that lies
In the grief that's truer
Happiness in disguise;
Sings of youth more lasting,
Sunlight more divine—
Gentle bird, sweet Spirit,
What a song is thine!
121
Forty seems as old age
In youth's happy light.
Fifty counts as nonage
When the head is white.
Fifty, sixty, seventy—
Old age cometh never,
If the Life gives the life
Which is for ever and ever.
In youth's happy light.
Fifty counts as nonage
When the head is white.
Fifty, sixty, seventy—
Old age cometh never,
If the Life gives the life
Which is for ever and ever.
| The Finding of The Book and Other Poems | |