Glory, poetry, and love,
Make youth beautiful, and pass
As the hues that shine above
Colour, but to quit, their glass.
But we soon grow calm and cold
As the grave to which we go;
Fashion'd in one common mould,
Pulse and step alike are slow.
We have lost the buoyant foot—
We have lost the eager eye;
All those inward chords are mute,
Once so eager to reply.
Is it not a constant sight—
Is it not most wretched too—
When we mark the weary plight
In which life is hurried through?
Selfish, listless, Earth may wear
All her summer wealth in vain—
Though the stars be still as fair,
Yet we watch them not again.
Too much do we leave behind
Sympathy with lovely things;
And the worn and worldly mind
Withers all life's fairy rings.
Glorious and beautiful
Were youth's feeling and youth's thought—
Would that we did not annul
All that in us then was wrought!
Would their influence could remain
When the hope and dream depart;
Would we might through life retain
Still some youth within the heart!
L. E. L.
