 | The Triangular Society |  |
OLD ROSES.
There is one I often meet
As I pass along the street,—
One upon whose furrowed face
Three-score years have left their trace,
Yet his strong and upright form
Has not bowed to wind or storm,
Nor his hair, though touched with rime,
Fallen beneath the scythe of Time.
As I pass along the street,—
One upon whose furrowed face
Three-score years have left their trace,
Yet his strong and upright form
Has not bowed to wind or storm,
Nor his hair, though touched with rime,
Fallen beneath the scythe of Time.
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And I said, the other day,
Seeing him across the way—
Speaking half to one who stood
Near me, in a musing mood—
“Lo, how lightly, it appears
On his forehead fall the years!
Youth's unfrozen blood still speaks
Eloquently in his cheeks,—
Seeing him across the way—
Speaking half to one who stood
Near me, in a musing mood—
“Lo, how lightly, it appears
On his forehead fall the years!
Youth's unfrozen blood still speaks
Eloquently in his cheeks,—
“And their well-kept ruddiness,
Somewhat withered, I confess,—
Looks as last year's roses look,
Pressed and dried within a book;
Still, with all their freshness fled,
Keeping all their olden red:—
Or, again, it seems to me,
As I look more carefully,
Somewhat withered, I confess,—
Looks as last year's roses look,
Pressed and dried within a book;
Still, with all their freshness fled,
Keeping all their olden red:—
Or, again, it seems to me,
As I look more carefully,
“Like the wrinkled crimson rind
Of the apples which we find,
As we peer with curious eyes
Into last year's granaries,
Or some dusty storehouse, where
Hidden from the light and air,
They have lain the winter through
Losing everything but hue;—
Of the apples which we find,
As we peer with curious eyes
Into last year's granaries,
Or some dusty storehouse, where
Hidden from the light and air,
They have lain the winter through
Losing everything but hue;—
“So, methinks, the withered cheek
Of whose rosiness we speak,
Keeps, unblanched, the ruddy glow
Of the bloom of long ago.”
“Nay,” spoke one who, waiting, heard
Smilingly my every word—
One whose arch, half-serious eyes
Answer ere her voice replies;—
“Nay,—bethink you,”—thus she said,—
“This is not the lingering red
Of his early morning years
Which upon his face appears;—
Of whose rosiness we speak,
Keeps, unblanched, the ruddy glow
Of the bloom of long ago.”
“Nay,” spoke one who, waiting, heard
Smilingly my every word—
One whose arch, half-serious eyes
Answer ere her voice replies;—
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“This is not the lingering red
Of his early morning years
Which upon his face appears;—
“'T is the ruddy sunset gleam
Lighting up life's darkening stream,
'T is the slight return which age
Makes for youth's lost heritage;—
'T is the light reflected o'er
From a brighter, rosier shore;
Or, to suit your playful mood
With a gay similitude,—
Lighting up life's darkening stream,
'T is the slight return which age
Makes for youth's lost heritage;—
'T is the light reflected o'er
From a brighter, rosier shore;
Or, to suit your playful mood
With a gay similitude,—
“When October's yellow hair
Brightening all the hazy air,
Half disputes her prophecy
Of the winter-time to be,
You have marked the various hues
Which the forest-monarchs choose?
You have seen them all arrayed
In their robes of light and shade?
Brightening all the hazy air,
Half disputes her prophecy
Of the winter-time to be,
You have marked the various hues
Which the forest-monarchs choose?
You have seen them all arrayed
In their robes of light and shade?
“When the sharp and frosty airs
Chill the sweet woods, unawares,
And to pallid whiteness bleach
All the tresses of the beech,
How the elm grows all alight,
Sallow with consumptive blight—
And the willow, blanched and sere,
Drops its leaves in trembling fear;—
Chill the sweet woods, unawares,
And to pallid whiteness bleach
All the tresses of the beech,
How the elm grows all alight,
Sallow with consumptive blight—
And the willow, blanched and sere,
Drops its leaves in trembling fear;—
“And the poplar's faded leaf
Quivers with its whispered grief,—
While the birch-tree's airy limbs
Wave to autumn's funeral-hymns—
And the oak, with lofty pride
Yielding, though unterrified,
Tones his glossy greenness down
To the dignity of brown;—
Quivers with its whispered grief,—
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Wave to autumn's funeral-hymns—
And the oak, with lofty pride
Yielding, though unterrified,
Tones his glossy greenness down
To the dignity of brown;—
“But the maple dons a blush
Rosier than the richest flush
Which in summer glows and thrills
All along the sunrise hills;—
Breaking into sudden bloom
As from out his sombre tomb
Bursts the newborn butterfly
Gorgeous with his brilliant dye.
Rosier than the richest flush
Which in summer glows and thrills
All along the sunrise hills;—
Breaking into sudden bloom
As from out his sombre tomb
Bursts the newborn butterfly
Gorgeous with his brilliant dye.
“Wherefore, trifler, we will say
Of the sire across the way—
He is like the maple tree
Growing old so rosily—
Borrowing nothing from his youth—
Age is wealthier far, in truth;
Blooming, when the summer 's past,
Brightly, brightlier, to the last!”
Of the sire across the way—
He is like the maple tree
Growing old so rosily—
Borrowing nothing from his youth—
Age is wealthier far, in truth;
Blooming, when the summer 's past,
Brightly, brightlier, to the last!”
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