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Chapter 87 : YOUTH AND AGE Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, Where Hope clung feeding lik

YOUTH AND AGE

Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, Where Hope clung feeding like a bee,-- Both were mine! Life went a-maying With Nature, Hope, and Poesy When I was young!

When I was young?--Ah, woful When!

Ah, for the change 'twixt Now and Then!

This breathing house not built with hands, This body that does me grievous wrong, O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands, How lightly then it flashed along:-- Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, On winding lakes and rivers wide, That ask no aid of sail or oar, That fear no spite of wind or tide!

Naught cared this body for wind or weather When Youth and I lived in't together.

Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; Friends.h.i.+p is a sheltering tree; Oh! the joys that came down shower-like, Of Friends.h.i.+p, Love, and Liberty Ere I was old!

Ere I was old? Ah, woful Ere, Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!

O Youth! for years so many and sweet, 'Tis known that Thou and I were one.

I'll think it but a fond conceit-- It cannot be that Thou art gone!

Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled:-- And thou wert aye a masker bold!

What strange disguise hast now put on To make believe that thou art gone?

I see these locks in silvery slips, This drooping gait, this altered size: But Springtide blossoms on thy lips, And tears take suns.h.i.+ne from thine eyes!

Life is but thought: so think I will That Youth and I are house-mates still.

Dewdrops are the gems of morning, But the tears of mournful eve!

Where no hope is, life's a warning That only serves to make us grieve When we are old:

That only serves to make us grieve With oft and tedious taking-leave, Like some poor nigh-related guest, That may not rudely be dismissed, Yet hath outstayed his welcome while, And tells the jest without the smile.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]

THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS And How He Gained Them

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried; "The few locks which are left you are gray; You are hale, Father William,--a hearty old man: Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied, "I remembered that youth would fly fast, And abused not my health and my vigor at first, That I never might need them at last."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried, "And pleasures with youth pa.s.s away; And yet you lament not the days that are gone: Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied, "I remembered that youth could not last; I thought of the future, whatever I did, That I never might grieve for the past."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried, "And life must be hastening away; You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death: Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"I am cheerful, young man," Father William replied; "Let the cause thy attention engage; In the days of my youth, I remembered my G.o.d, And He hath not forgotten my age."

Robert Southey [1774-1843]

TO AGE

Welcome, old friend! These many years Have we lived door by door: The Fates have laid aside their shears Perhaps for some few more.

I was indocile at an age When better boys were taught, But thou at length hast made me sage, If I am sage in aught.

Little I know from other men, Too little they from me, But thou hast pointed well the pen That writes these lines to thee.

Thanks for expelling Fear and Hope, One vile, the other vain; One's scourge, the other's telescope, I shall not see again:

Rather what lies before my feet My notice shall engage.-- He who hath braved Youth's dizzy heat Dreads not the frost of Age.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

LATE LEAVES

The leaves are falling; so am I; The few late flowers have moisture in the eye; So have I too.

Scarcely on any bough is heard Joyous, or even unjoyous, bird The whole wood through.

Winter may come: he brings but nigher His circle (yearly narrowing) to the fire Where old friends meet.

Let him; now heaven is overcast, And spring and summer both are past, And all things sweet.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

YEARS

Years, many parti-colored years, Some have crept on, and some have flown Since first before me fell those tears I never could see fall alone.

Years, not so many, are to come, Years not so varied, when from you One more will fall: when, carried home, I see it not, nor hear Adieu.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

THE RIVER OF LIFE

The more we live, more brief appear Our life's succeeding stages: A day to childhood seems a year, And years like pa.s.sing ages.

The gladsome current of our youth, Ere pa.s.sion yet disorders, Steals, lingering like a river smooth Along its gra.s.sy borders.

But as the careworn cheek grows wan, And sorrow's shafts fly thicker, Ye Stars, that measure life to man, Why seem your courses quicker?

When joys have lost their bloom and breath, And life itself is vapid, Why, as we reach the Falls of Death, Feel we its tide more rapid?