Or scatter baleful poison all around.
I love the aged man, whose hoary hair
Lies thinly scatter’d o’er his temples bare;
I love to see him cheerfully descend
The hill of life. The winter of his days
A prelude is to one eternal spring.
And I love sorrow too; it teaches me
The lessons I shall ne’er forget. It breaks
My heart, that love divine may enter in,
And, while it heals the breach, may there abide.