O little face, how soon the years, alas!
Shall score stern lines upon that pure smooth brow.
And round the eyes and vermeil mouth, where now
No harshness dwells, but all emotions pass
As subtle-smooth as light winds over grass —
Aye score stern lines, marking the when and how
Of all life's storms: I hear their sway and sough
Coming; they gloom upon us; from the mass
Of congregated clouds leap fire, and rain.
And thunder; then they sob themselves to sleep.
But, ah! the difference in the summer plain.
The shatter'd woods, the sodden meadows deep,
And blasted promise of the golden grain; —
And at the change I cannot choose but weep.
