Lines in Pleasant Places :: :: University of Virginia Library

Much, much is written, and much is sung,
Of love that dwells youth's bowers among,
When the eyes are bright and the cheeks aflame
With a glow the tints of the rose might shame,
When the heart throbs quick with emotion warm
And the pulses answer to passion's storm,
But little is said in the stories told
Of the tried and faithful love of the old.

Age is the harvest season of love,
As earth-life melts in the life above;
The fruitage time, in spirit and truth,
Of the seeds of love that are sown in youth:
Some never spring in the stony ground,
Some die ere the evening shades come round,
But, bright and fresh from congenial mould
Grows the love that ripens to crown the old.

Ah, many a trial this love hath known;
The fiercest suns have upon it shone,
The rain's mad beat and the raging blast

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Have o'er its fortunes a life-time passed;
It has thriven the better when thus assailed,
And ne'er from its hope and trust has failed—
Ne'er in devotedness turnéd cold,
But brighter glowed as the heart grew old.

'Tis not a love to last for a day,
A light to flash and vanish away,
To rave with a sonnet and melt in sighs,
And live in selfish unsacrifice—
To crave forever with tearful cheeks,
And die in possession of what it seeks:
By pure and exalted trust controlled
Is the love that sanctifies the old.

Then, graybeards, heed not the mocking sneer
From supercilious lips you hear;
Yours is the love that has stood the test,
And gilds your years like a smile from the west.
It sparkles and glows like the richest wine,
And it bears the brand of the love divine;—
There's a glory more than the eye may behold
In the endless love that bides with the old.