He was not young nor old — yet he was both;
Nor both by turns, but always both at once;
For youth and age commingled in his ways,
His words, his feelings, and his thoughts and acts.
At times the "old man" tottered in his thoughts,
The child played thro' his words; his face was sad.
I one day asked his age; he smiled and said:
"The rose that sleeps upon yon valley's breast,
Just born to-day, is not as young as I;
The moss-robed oak of twice a thousand storms —
An acorn cradled ages long ago —
Is old, in sooth, but not as old as I."
It was his way — he always answered thus,
But when he did his face was very sad.
* * * * *
Spirit Song
Thou wert once the purest wave
Where the tempests roar;
Thou art now a golden wave
On the golden shore —
Ever — ever — evermore!
Thou wert once the bluest wave
Shadows e'er hung o'er;
Thou art now the brightest wave
On the brightest shore —
Ever — ever — evermore!
Thou wert once the gentlest wave
Ocean ever bore;
Thou art now the fairest wave
On the fairest shore —
Ever — ever — evermore!
Whiter foam than thine, O wave,
Wavelet never wore,
Stainless wave; and now you lave
The far and stormless shore —
Ever — ever — evermore!
Who bade thee go, O bluest wave,
Beyond the tempest's roar?
Who bade thee flow, O fairest wave,
Unto the golden shore,
Ever — ever — evermore?
Who waved a hand, O purest wave?
A hand that blessings bore,
And wafted thee, O whitest wave,
Unto the fairest shore,
Ever — ever — evermore?