 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
OLD AGE.
Oh, here we enter on the Desert; hereThe Great Saharas of the Heart, sad, dry,
Waste, springless, loveless, blank before us lie!
Sad prospect! sad at distance, most sad near!
We enter it alone in soul, whate'er
Of love abideth with us outwardly
(Outward itself too oft, lip-service, eye-
Observance), losing still ourselves, with Fear,
Ill guide in evil place! Few springs are there,
Round which some stray Forget-me-nots may grow,
Which Memory plucks, and fain would with her bear;
But they too fade. Death breathes on them—they go,
And we go too. Fear stumbles o'er Despair;
And Death alone remains the way to show!
| Stones from The Quarry | |