100
THE FLIGHT OF THE CHILDREN.
Till, suddenly, some timid tongue
Asks me if I were ever young.
Asks me if I were ever young.
Then, wild and beautiful like a bird,
Upon my shoulders youth alights;
Old music from its sleep is heard;
I linger in diviner nights;
A lonesome crescent cuts the sky;
Weird, windy shadows waver by.
Upon my shoulders youth alights;
Old music from its sleep is heard;
I linger in diviner nights;
A lonesome crescent cuts the sky;
Weird, windy shadows waver by.
One lily, yellow-withered, dead,
Reblooms and shakes old sweetness out;
One rose, from pages long unread,
Breathes its lost breath of love about;
From half-a-century of dust
One slighted hand is wanly thrust.
Reblooms and shakes old sweetness out;
One rose, from pages long unread,
Breathes its lost breath of love about;
From half-a-century of dust
One slighted hand is wanly thrust.
. . . Then my fair, dreary dream will pass—
No longer young nor old am I;
My fairies leave the dew and grass,
Out of the wind my fairies fly;—
My own sweet children sweetly say:
"You cry sometimes—when we 're away!"
No longer young nor old am I;
My fairies leave the dew and grass,
Out of the wind my fairies fly;—
My own sweet children sweetly say:
"You cry sometimes—when we 're away!"
