Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Your wedding-ring wears thin, dear wife; ah, summers not a few,
Since I put it on your finger first, have pass'd o'er me and you;
And, love, what changes we have seen—what cares and pleasures, too,
Since you became my own dear wife, when this old ring was new.

O, blessings on that happy day, the happiest of my life,
When, thanks to God, your low, sweet “Yes” made you my loving wife;
Your heart will say the same, I know; that day's as dear to you,—
That day that made me yours, dear wife, when this old ring was new.

How well do I remember now your young sweet face that day!
How fair you were, how dear you were, my tongue could hardly say,
Nor how I doated on you; ah, how proud I was of you;
But did I love you more than now, when this old ring was new?

No—no; no fairer were you then than at this hour to me;
And, dear as life to me this day, how could you dearer be?
As sweet your face might be that day as now it is, 'tis true,
But did I know your heart as well when this old ring was new?

O, partner of my gladness, wife, what care, what grief is there
For me you would not bravely face, with me you would not share?

O, what a weary want had every day, if wanting you,
Wanting the love that God made mine when this old ring was new.

Years bring fresh links to bind us, wife—young voices that are here,
Young faces round our fire that make their mother's yet more dear,
Young, loving hearts, your care each day makes yet more like to you,
More like the loving heart made mine when this old ring was new.

And, bless'd be God! all He has given are with us yet; around
Our table, every precious life lent to us still is found;
Though cares we've known, with hopeful hearts the worst we've struggled through:
Bless'd be His name for all His love since this old ring was new!

The past is dear; its sweetness still our memories treasure yet;
The griefs we've borne, together borne, we would not now forget;
Whatever, wife, the future brings, heart unto heart still true,
We'll share as we have shared all else since this old ring was new.

And if God spare us 'mongst our sons and daughters to grow old,
We know His goodness will not let your heart or mine grow cold;
Your agëd eyes will see in mine all they've still shown to you,
And mine in yours all they have seen since this old ring was new.

And O, when death shall come at last to bid me to my rest,
May I die looking in those eyes, and resting on that breast;

O, may my parting gaze be bless'd with the dear sight of you,
Of those fond eyes—fond as they were when this old ring was new.

MY OWN EASY CHAIR.

A FIRESIDE SONG.

When business is done, and I home take my way,
To rest me at last from the cares of the day,
Fatigued—wearied out quite—what pleasure is there
In flinging me down in my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
A friend I love well is my own easy chair.

From morning till evening—till night's coming down,
I'm busy at work without rest in the town,
Till body and brain no more labour can bear,
Till I thank God at home is my own easy chair;
Then my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
How welcome to me is my own easy chair.

In winter, as entering I shake off the snow,
In the fender my slippers are toasting, I know;
And, fronting the bright blaze, I'm sure to see there,
In the full ruddy firelight, my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
Still ready for me is my own easy chair.

What rest, when I'm quite to its comfort resign'd,
What gladness of ease in its old arms I find!
To be tired right out is a joy I declare,
But to taste the full rest of my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
What rest is like that in my own easy chair.

My bed is a blessing, for which God I bless,
But bed than one's own chair must comfort one less,
For, sleeping, one can't know how blest one is there,
The waking delight of my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
How I feel the full rest of my own easy chair.

If I with the crosses of life am perplex'd,
If with men and their doings I'm worried and vex'd,
In its quiet I learn soon to bear and forbear,
And peace comes to me in my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
It whispers me peace, does my own easy chair.

But my chair's a confessor and counsellor too,
If a wrong I have done, or a wrong I would do,
Its quiet old voice not a failing will spare,
And wisdom I learn from my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
What preacher is like you, my own easy chair.

Round my chair, little faces, how dear! come and go,
To get kisses—ask questions—their lessons to show,
And to puzzle their father, though sage I look there,
As if all things I knew, in my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
Long may those faces throng round my own easy chair.

In my chair as I dream, there looks up from my knee
The face of an angel 'tis heaven to see,
Golden curls—azure eyes—baby's small voice is there,
Prattling up to my heart in my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
God keep that small form by my own easy chair.

Then the boys, they are heard with their voices too high;
Harold's loud in assertion—Will's shrill in reply—
And my voice must be raised, calming down the storm there,
The lawgiver speaks from my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
Is the judge over stern in my own easy chair?

Then Katie, or May, as night grows in the room,
With the sweetness of some dear old tune fills the gloom,
As she plays, through my brain steals its feeling till there
I could dream night away in my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
What dreams come to me in my own easy chair!

Then rhymes come unbidden; as feeling grows strong,
Through head, lip, and pen, fancies hurry along,
And songs leap to birth, to some still voiceless air,
And a poet I seem in my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
The muse loves me well in my own easy chair.

O Emma, my good, true, my own darling wife,
Through the worst cares of day how it gladdens my life
To think that at evening your face will be there,
Looking love to me stretch'd in my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
How dear comes that voice to my own easy chair.

What memories cling to it! what thoughts of delights
Of past Christmas eves and of gone New-Year's nights,
Of faces we see not—shall only see where
We shall go when we're missed from our own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
Where they're gone, may I go from my own easy chair.

My gladness to gladden—my sorrow to cheer,
Still, old chair, be my friend while in life I am here,
Be my comforter still till all white is my hair,
Till death steals my form from my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
One day we must part too, my own easy chair.

OUR FAIRIES.

There are fairies here about us,
That our home are brightening still,
That were dull and sad without us
Whom they come with joy to fill;
Perchance, their gold they've squandered,
And so can live no more
In Elf-land, and have wandered
For shelter through our door;
Blest is the roof above them;
We care not why they've come;
We know but that we love them,
These fairies of our home.

One of them, but a baby,
Crows in its mother's arms;
Its mood, whate'er it may be,
That mood its mother charms;
It drinks at her dear bosom,
It laughs up in her eyes,
A blooming, rosy blossom,
Of but the tiniest size.
Blessed are the eyes above it,
To bless them it has come;
This baby, how we love it,
This fairy of our home.

One can but be entrancing
Our eyes with all he'll do;
Whatever, wife, is chancing,
Still he's a bliss to you;

Called, in some tongue he answers
That's known in Elfin land;
There, perhaps, the best of dancers,
Here, he can hardly stand;
With summer skies above him,
'Mongst bees he loves to roam;
Dear toddler, how we love him,
This fairy of our home!

A third, more staid, whom may be
We've seen for some eight years,
Teases and talks to baby,
And a small girl appears.
She speaks a tongue that's human,
She's here to act the part
Of a sweet little woman,
How dear, wife, to your heart!
O golden-curled, dear Mary,
No evil near you come,
You laughing, blue-eyed fairy
Of fairies of our home.

The next—our home they fill full—
Like the most pert of boys,
Is still an urchin wilful,
And fills our days with noise;
Yet, darling of his mother,
He loves so well to kiss,
We'd have him just no other
Than all to us he is;
Though plain this one we see is
A something of a gnome,
Dear as the others he is,
This fairy of our home.

Another, somewhat bigger,
Has bent to mortal rule,
Can read, and seems to figure,
A boy, 'mongst boys at school;
He, mortal sports unheeding,
Will pore, of thought bereft

For all things else, still reading
Of Elf-land he has left.
Yet how can we reprove him!
To bless us, too, he's come,
We who so fondly love him,
This fairy of our home.

Another that still longer
To us the sun has shown,
For her our love seems stronger,
If stronger can be known;
Kate is her name 'mongst misses,
At school she sings and plays,
And wins from us, what kisses,
What smiles, and prayers, and praise!
Surely with her caressings
Our maiden here has come,
To fill our years with blessings,
Fair fairy of our home.

But best and last, O maiden,
That mov'st before our sight,
A joy to us grief-laden,
A bliss in our delight;
May, O thou priceless treasure,
Best gift we ever knew,
Who shall the gladness measure,
The joy we find in you!
How our hopes brood above you!
Let tears—let sorrow come,
We'll laugh while we can love you,
Best fairy of our home.

O fairies, never leave us!
O still breathe mortal breath!
O not of one, bereave us,
Thou fear whose name is Death!
These human blooms, O let them
Live on to summer here,
And not till winters fret them
Bid them to disappear!

Lord, leave them to caress us!
Through good, through ill to come,
Still let these dear ones bless us—
These fairies of our home!

BY A GRAVE IN LEE CHURCHYARD.

Father—father, here I linger;
Years have passed since last I came,
Thus to trace, with faltering finger,
On this stone, your vanished name;
That dear name, what dear lips told it
Once—that name, now named by none
But by those, how few! who hold it
Dear as I, your lonely son.

Father, father, I am yearning
That long-vanished form to see,
That face that is but returning
Dim, as in a dream, to me;
Few the years that dear face blessed me
Ere it awed my childish sight,
Father, no more to caress me,
From its coffin, calm and white.

Then but as a child I wept you,
Deeply as a child's heart can
In its love my child's heart kept you,
But no more than now I'm man;
Not as much; O early-pined-for,
Father, o'er whose grave I bow,
See, with tears, these eyes are blind for
Those dear eyes that see me now.

Yes, while here your dust is sleeping,
O dear soul these lips would kiss,
You are in some new world keeping
Watch o'er those you loved in this;

Still my evil thoughts controlling,
Joying in my earthly joy,
I have felt you, grief consoling,
Warning—strengthening me, your boy.

O from empty space before me,
Father dear, that you might start,
Might now bend that dear face o'er me
And look love into my heart!
But not to these eyes while living
Shall that blessed lost look come;
No more words to mine are giving
Those dear lips, for ever dumb.

Shall I not hereafter know you,
O my father, yet again?
Yes, to these eyes death shall show you,
When I leave life's joy and pain;
With the bliss of those long parted,
O how cherished, O how sweet,
Is the thought that then, glad-hearted,
Father, father, we shall meet!

DREAM!

Yes, yours be pleasant dreaming;
My little ones, while here,
May fancies to your seeming
As sweet as facts appear;
Not only dreams of fairy
And elf-land yours should be,
Like those vouchsafed to Mary,
But those that May would see.

Sweet visions without number
Not only I'd have come,
Such as delight your slumber
When daylight's dreams are dumb,

That, even though free from terror
And fearful forms of night,
With unshaped thought and error
Our sealed-up eyes delight.

No, but the fairest fancies
That through the sunshine sing,
And to all life's mischances
A balm and comfort bring;
Dreams dear to babbling baby
And girl alike and boy,
And youth and age when maybe
Life's older cares annoy.

Yes, dreams that bless all ages,
I wave my wand!—descend,
Ye hopes of all life's stages
Until its solemn end.
Dreams that with pictured story
Make small ones hush their breath,
Dreams that can light to glory
The gathering glooms of death.

O Norman, tiny treasure,
Last blessing lent from Heaven,
Dreams but of baby pleasure
To those small eyes be given.
Dreams but of blessëd blisses
For ever meet your sight,
Of mother's looks and kisses,
Of mother's rapt delight.

Sweet fancy do your duty!
In Mary's dreams disclose
Dolls of unearthly beauty
With cheeks that dim the rose;
To dress—to nurse—to chide them,
Wax angels to her send,
If she have cares, to hide them
And all her griefs to end.

To Willie, breeched and coated,
That restlessest of boys,
Give boats that may be floated,
All supermortal toys;
Such tarts as have no being,
School-prizes, Christmas times,
Pictures no eyes are seeing,
And ceaseless pantomimes.

To Harold, endless cricket
Where he is always in,
Where no ball floors his wicket,
Dread tales and lots of tin;
Scenes in the Circus, jumpings
By goddesses in gauze,
Schools where he gets no thumpings,
And countless tops and taws.

And Kate, my darling, rising
Some one year in your teens,
Hope dream for you, disguising
The future's chequered scenes!
Dream on of friends and lovers
Tender and kind and true
As each small one that hovers
At parties now by you.

Dream, May, O almost woman,
O to our hearts how dear!
Of all bliss that is human
That God can give you here!
Dream that the love around you,
Dream that the hearts of home,
Its praise and prayers surround you,
Whatever, dear, may come!

May book-land sights be lending
That suits the eyes of each
With new delights unending
That love and goodness teach,

From tales that fill small fancies
With pity, awe, and mirth,
To songs whose joy entrances
The older brains of earth.

From age to age life ranges;
As year on year is told,
May you, through all its changes,
The dreams you'd dream, behold.
Fame—wealth—each sighed-for blessing,
Love—every good beside,
Be each, in dreams, possessing,
If they're to life denied.

Yet through your mortal dreaming
Be there celestial light
Of radiant glory streaming
Upon you, day and night;
Visions of hours immortal,
Gleams from a world above,
Illuming death, its portal,
With God's eternal love.

And O may He be willing,
Who all sweet dreams ensures,
The good your fancy's filling
May still, in fact, be yours;
While such fair worlds of dreaming
Kind God allots to you,
Enjoy their good in seeming,
And wake to find it—true.

WEDDING WORDS.

A jewel for my lady's ear,
A jewel for her finger fine,
A diamond for her bosom dear,
Her bosom that is mine.

Dear glances for my lady's eyes,
Dear looks around her form to twine,
Dear kisses for the lips I prize,
Her dear lips that are mine.

Dear breathings to her, soft and low,
Of how my lot she's made divine,
Dear silences my love that show
For her whose love is mine.

Dear cares no cloud shall shade her way,
That gladness only on her shine,
That she be happy as the May
Whose lot is one with mine.

Dear wishes hovering round her life
And tending thoughts, and dreams divine,
To feed with perfect joy the wife
Whose happiness is mine.

ON A MINIATURE OF MY WIFE.

Yes—there's the cheek—the placid eye,
The softly shaded hair,
The smile, the lip—yet tell me why
Seems something wanting there?
Ah, needless question! wherefore ask?
How can the pencil trace
The fond affection, the calm love,
That sanctifies her face?
Oh, Art is strong from time and death
The outward charm to win,
But vainly does it strive with Life
To paint the heart within!

MY NATIVE TOWN.

O Kent has many a town and many
A pleasant village by stream and sea,
But O more pleasant, more dear than any,
Is my native town where I dwell, to me,
And leafy Greenwich, green pleasant Greenwich,
Dear to my heart will it ever be.

My native Greenwich,—there dwelt my father,
And work'd for you till his early death;
O on what spot of the wide world rather
Would I first have seen day or have first drawn breath
Than in leafy Greenwich, green pleasant Greenwich,
That dear will be to me till death.

My boyhood's Greenwich—each childish pleasure
In my old dear home in your streets I knew,
Each childish sadness, and thoughts I'll treasure,
Pleasant to think of my whole life through,
Of school-day times that long since in Greenwich
Sweet laughs and tears to my boy's eyes drew.

My manhood's Greenwich,—'tis there the gladness,
The griefs and cares of my life I've known,
But, whether my days brought joy or sadness,
Thought of with all, you've but dearer grown,
And joy and sorrow, my native Greenwich,
Have but drawn you more close to my heart alone.

'Tis there I've work'd to see those around me
Know wiser lives than their fathers knew,
With friends have labour'd that still have found me,
Through all my years, to your good still true;
And while I am with you, O pleasant Greenwich,
Still will I work, my town, for you.

O Medway, calm through your meadows winding,
Through blossoming hops that sweeten day,

O Darent, the shadows of orchards finding
Wherever your gleaming waters stray,
Who mates you with the royal river
That seawards by Greenwich glides away!

Oxford and Reading watch its flowing;
A pleasant stream to their wharves it shows;
By Windsor and emerald Richmond going,
Yet, scarcely a river, it onward goes;
But here, where to Greenwich her domes it shadows,
With navies its broad breadth ebbs and flows.

O pleasant lawns by your chestnuts bounded,
O shadowing elms rook-throng'd through Spring!
To me, by London's deep roar surrounded,
What thoughts of stillness and peace you bring,
Of Mays when I've heard your hawthorns' blossoms
Rustled apart by some brown bird's wing!

And, fate, were my lot but summer dreaming,
The lot of the toilless, careless few,
Greenwich, how blest were it, to my seeming,
To dream away life, my town, in you,
Watching Autumn turning to gold your woodlands,
Watching Spring-time leafing your boughs anew.

Ah, should my future from you be parted,
Should I not leave you, my town, with pain!
Sorrow here finds me less sad-hearted,
Joy more joyous than elsewhere; fain
Here would my age in peace glide deathwards,
Here in your earth a calm grave gain.

TO A. E. B.

WITH AN ALBUM.

Traced on the inkless whiteness of this book,
What, dearest Alice, would its giver see?
White thoughts, as stainless as itself, should be
All that on its pure leaves should meet your look.

May loving pens give to each page a voice
Of counsel or consolement or delight,
Wise words to guide all wavering thoughts aright,
Sweet tongues your listening fancy to rejoice.

Caged in these pages, here let poets bless
Your ears with songs that catch the music heard
Of angels, songs by which the heart is stirr'd
To truth and pity, good and gentleness.

Yes, let the birds that all the seasons hear,
The sweet-tongued poets, here rejoicing sing
Songs that amid the roar of streets shall bring
Nature and all the glory of the year.

Here be their sunshine that is always bright,
Their woods, how green, even in the city's gloom,
Their noons that glow, hot through the wintriest room,
Their landscapes, ever stretch'd before our sight.

A precious casket, Alice, be this book,
Of priceless memories, that you here may find
Dear tones, unheard, that you would call to mind,
And absent faces on which you would look.

Swiftly we pass; it may be, some shall fill
The voiceless grave, yet in these pages live,
Speaking the love that they, alive, would give,
To guide, rejoice, perchance console you still.

Life has its griefs for all; if sorrow come
On your life's path, even this poor book may hold,
So stored, a holy wisdom, more than gold,
Nor, ask'd for comfort, to your grief be dumb.

And may the beauty that your eyes here view,
The truth and gentleness that here you find,
Be written by it on your soul and mind,
And, loved of all, live evermore in you.

THE NEW PARIS.

A HOME FANCY.

How strange are, wife, the freaks of dreams!
How quaintly does the mocking night
Weave that which is with that which seems,
To cheat with shows our sleeping sight!
Last night, my last word breathed your name;
I slept; then, mingling false and true,
Swift to my eyes a vision came
In antique guise, and yet of you.

Methought I breathed on Ida's side,
In Ilium's days, that Dardan boy
To whom Dione gave that bride,
The wonder, boast, and doom of Troy;
Hush'd was the noon; down on my eyes
A glory swam with sudden awe;
Herè the great—Pallas the wise,
And her—the Queen of smiles—I saw.

Hermes alone, beside was there;
A golden fruit the wing'd one bore:
“This, unto her who is most fair,
“Give thou!” he said; nor said he more.
Then heard I voices lure me straight,
Gifts fit for Gods in every voice;
Power—wisdom—beauty—seem'd to wait
Upon the breath that told my choice.

O what had I with thrones to do?
Cold wisdom's gifts why should I prize?
I ask'd but power to live for you,
But wisdom won from those dear eyes.
A gaze that oft had Gods beguiled
Met mine; Dione from me drew
The golden triumph as she smiled,
And, smiling, for it, proffered you.

THE QUEEN.

A FIRE-SIDE SONG.

Yes, wife, I'd be a thronèd king,
That you might share my royal seat,
That titled beauty I might bring
And princes' homage to your feet.
How quickly, then, would nobles see
Your courtly grace—your regal mien;
Even duchesses all blind should be
To flaw or speck in you, their Queen.

Poor wish! O wife, a queen you are,
To whose feet many a subject brings
A truer homage, nobler far
Than bends before the thrones of kings.
You rule a realm, wife, in this heart
Where not one rebel fancy's seen,
Where hopes and smiles, how joyous! start
To own the sway of you, their Queen.

How loyal are my thoughts by day!
How faithful is each dream of night!
Not one but lives but to obey
Your rule,—to serve you, its delight;
My hours—each instant—every breath
Are, wife, as all have ever been,
Your slaves, to serve you unto death;
O wife, you are indeed a Queen!

MY PICTURE GALLERY.

Yes, I am fond of pictures; how I love to wander through,
With delight,
A gallery such as this is! 'Tis a pleasure ever new
To my sight;

Yet, though I've not a masterpiece that pencil ever drew,
My heart has its own gallery, with pictures not a few;
Yes, friend, I have my paintings rare, and, trust me, sweet ones, too,
Seen aright.

There, landscapes I can look on, fine as Turner's to my eyes.
What a joy
For me within the glory of their golden radiance lies!
From annoy,
From care I turn, with rapture still, to see their mountains rise,
To gaze upon their rivers, and entrance me with their skies,
More radiant than the sunniest Cuyps, the Claudes that most you prize
And enjoy.

Ah, in my silent gallery, priceless portraits too are hung
I adore,
As fine as those that Titian's mighty hand has ever flung
Glory o'er.
There are my Vandycks and Reynoldses, I love to stroll among,
More than through those whose praise and fame around the world are rung—
These, than Rembrandts or your Raphaels rare, so praised by every tongue,
I love more.

O, Memory, mighty painter! these I prize are from your hand.
How they start
To colour, life, and motion, at the waving of your wand!
When apart
From men, and talk, and bustle, I before them, musing, stand,
How precious forms and faces, and dear scenes of sea and land,
Than ever colours imaged yet, more tender, sweet, and
Charm my heart.

There are dim-remembered places that once felt my infant feet
Long ago;
There are woods and playgrounds nearer, bedroom, parlour, school, and street
That I know;
Field and lane, and sand and seashore, trodden by my boyish feet,
Or later, firmer steps, that make my heart with pleasure beat;
Old labours and old troubles, ah! old sorrows now seem sweet,
That they show.

There the faces that I look on, and the forms that there I see,
Dim or clear,
How tender, soft, and dream-like seems their beauty there to me,
And how dear!
Sister—brothers—father—mother, as they are and used to be
To my baby sight—my boy's eyes, seen in sorrow, thought, and glee,
Those dead to us in distance—those in eternity—
They are here.

With old smiles they're ever smiling, with old sorrows there they grieve;
O, how still!
My brain, with dreams and shadows that my fancy used to weave,
How they fill!
The kind—the feared—the false—old looks that fondle, scare, deceive—
Old ringing laughs, and saddest sighs — the gone for whom we grieve—
For me the shadowy twilights of the solemn past they leave,
At my will.

The man is there the infant — the girl's long-vanished smiles
There remain;
And tottering age to stirring life, the magic here beguiles;
All in vain
Time would hide them. O, enchanter, here thy silent, wondrous wiles,
To thy canvasses, that glow with matchless charms of all sweet styles,
Beauty faded — life departed — friendship, absent weary miles,
Call again.

On the deepening summer shadows—on the redly-glowing fire,
So she'll paint
All that eye and heart have seen, or see, or ever can desire;
Clear or faint,
There she limns them, and with gladdened eyes, that never of them tire,
All the wonder — sweetness — sadness, of her marvels I admire.
Ah, my pictures beat your rarest, though they may not have a buyer,
Child or saint.

[My hair is gathering gray apace]

My hair is gathering gray apace;
There's silver in it seen at last;
More thin and care-worn grows my face,
And age creeps near, now youth is past;
I've known what forty years can take,
What forty changeful years can bring,
Time, perhaps, my songs less gay may make,
But, blessed be God, I still can sing.

Yes, I have lived my life's fresh Spring,
The laughing May of all my years,
When, in the light that hope can fling
On all things, earth a heaven appears;

Ah, May and hope, I've left behind
Too far to feel as in my Spring;
But yet I have not song resigned,
No, blessed be God, I still can sing.

I've learned that as we onward range,
Each year its cares and toils must know,
That pleasures into griefs must change,
That gleams the cloudiest skies can show;
Yet, though I soberer plod along,
My age has glimpses of my Spring;
Yes, still its sunshine's in my song,
And, blessed be God, I still can sing.

Little's the leisure that I have;
At times I tread a weary way;
At times, for rest, my life will crave,
From the dull labours of each day;
So years go by, I know my days
My share of good and gladness bring,
But, best of blessings, God, I praise
The most that still He bids me sing.

Yes, the thrush sings, though Summer's come,
As though the Spring were round it still;
O may my Autumn not be dumb,
And song-bursts still my Winter fill!
Linger with me, O dear delight!
I hardly care what time may bring;
Care, toil, and sorrow sink from sight,
While, blessed be God, I still can sing.

[And say you that my Spring has fled]

And say you that my Spring has fled,
O silver round my temples shown?
What matter though time blanch my head,
So that he leave my heart alone?

I know, when first my glass would show
The gathering gray, I used to start;
What care I now! I've learned to know
Still Spring and song are in my heart.

Then let Time touch my hair to white;
It pleases him, it pains not me,
So long as still my heart is light,
And pleasure in my thoughts I see;
Let age have cheek, and hair, and eyes,
These form, of sweet youth, but a part;
I do but mask as old and wise:
Still Spring and song bloom in my heart.

Yes, in this heart, they're blooming still,
And here I'd hold them while I've breath;
Whatever else my age may kill,
My mirth and songs should know no death;
On to the cold brink of the grave,
From which I'd learn not even to start,
These blessings from time's grasp I'd save,
And Spring and song should cheer my heart.