If youth had been willing to listen
To all that its grandfathers told,
If the gray-bearded sage by the weight of his age
Had been able attention to hold,
We'd be reading by candles and heating with wood,
And where we were then we'd have certainly stood.

If youth had been willing to listen
To the warnings and hints of the wise,
Had it taken as true all the best which they knew,
And believed that no higher we'd rise,
The windows of sick rooms would still be kept shut
And we'd still use a cobweb to bandage a cut.

If youth had been willing to listen,
Had it clung to the best of the past,
With oxen right now we'd be struggling to plough
And thinking a horse travels fast.
We'd have stood where we were beyond question or doubt
If some pestilent germ hadn't wiped us all out.

So, although I am gray at the temples,
And settled and fixed in my ways,
I wouldn't hold youth to the limits of truth
That I learned in my brief yesterdays.
And I say to myself as they come and they go:
"Those kids may find something this age doesn't know."

If I should die to-night
My friends would look upon my quiet face
Before they laid it in its resting place,
And deem that death had left it almost fair,
And, laying snow white flowers against my hair
Would smooth it down with thankful tenderness,
And fold my hands with lingering caress,
Poor hands—so empty and so cold to-night.

If I should die to-night,
My friends would call to mind with loving thought
Some kindly deed the icy hand had wrought
Some gentle word the frozen lips had said
Errands on which the willing feet had sped;
The memory of my selfishness and pride,
My hasty words would all be laid aside;
And so I should be loved and mourned to-night.

If I should die to-night,
Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me,
Recalling other days remorsefully,
The eyes that chill me with averted glance
Would look upon me as of yore perchance,
As often in the old familiar way;
For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay?
So might I rest by all forgiven to-night.

Oh friends, I pray to-night,
Keep not your kisses for my cold dead brow.
The way is lonely, let me feel them now.
Think gently of me, I am travel-worn,
My faltering feet are pierced by many a thorn.
Forgive, O hearts estranged, forgive, I plead,
When dreamless rest is mine I shall not need
The tenderness for which I long to-night.