In Old Age
Ah, what is beauty to the sick man's eye?
Unto the spirit wintry with despair
The promise of the spring? The azure air,
The winged pomp of Heaven passing by
Into the topmost summer's golden sky?
The west-wind breathing in my face is young
As once I was, when in my heart there sprung
Primrose and violet joys that soonest die.
Therefore I think upon my days of prime,
Unfailing strength, unquenchable delight,
The voices that I heard in that far time,
Of love and truth, the eyes that once were bright,
And the long vision of the past appears
One summer morn, a morn of merry years.