Ay, we will forget our hearts are old,
And that our hair is gray.
We'll kiss as we kissed at pale sunset
That summer's halcyon day.
That day, can it fade?... ah, bob, bob-white,
Still calling—calling still?
We're coming—a-coming, bent and weighed,
But glad with the old love's thrill!
THE DYING POET
Swing in thy splendour, O silent sun,
Drawing my heart with thee over the west!
Done is its day as thy day is done,
Fallen its quest!
Swoon into purple and rose, then die:
Tho' to arise again out of the dawn:
Die as I praise thee, ere thro' the Dark Lie
Of death I am drawn!
Sunk? art thou sunken? how great was life!
I like a child could cry for it again—
Cry for its beauty, pang, fleeting and strife,
Its women, its men!
For, how I drained it with love and delight!
Opened its heart with the magic of grief!
Reaped every season—its day and its night!
Loved every sheaf!
Aye, not a meadow my step has trod,
Never a flower swung sweet to my face,
Never a heart that was touched of God,
But taught me its grace.