My heart is cold and sad; I moan,
Yet care not for my grief;
The summer fervours all are gone;
The roses are but leaf.
Old age is coming, frosty, hoar;
The snows of time will fall;
My jubilance, dream-like, no more
Returns for any call!
O lapsing heart! thy feeble strain
Sends up the blood so spare,
That my poor withering autumn brain
Sees autumn everywhere!
IV.
Lord of my life! if I am blind,
I reck not—thou canst see;
I well may wait my summer mind,
When I am sure of thee!
I made no brave bright suns arise,
Veiled up no sweet gray eves;
I hung no rose-lamps, lit no eyes,
Sent out no windy leaves!
I said not "I will cast a charm
These gracious forms around;"
My heart with unwilled love grew warm;
I took but what I found!
When cold winds range my winter-night,
Be thou my summer-door;
Keep for me all my young delight,
Till I am old no more.