The fatal touch awaits them all
That turns the rocks to dust;
From year to year they break and fall,—
They break, but never rust.
Say if one note of happier strain
This worn-out harp afford,—
One throb that trembles, not in vain,—
Their memory lent its chord.
Say that when Fancy closed her wings
And Passion quenched his fire,
Love, Love, still echoed from the strings
As from Anacreon's lyre!
THE OLD TUNE
THIRTY-SIXTH VARIATION
1886
THIS shred of song you bid me bring
Is snatched from fancy's embers;
Ah, when the lips forget to sing,
The faithful heart remembers!
Too swift the wings of envious Time
To wait for dallying phrases,
Or woven strands of labored rhyme
To thread their cunning mazes.
A word, a sigh, and lo, how plain
Its magic breath discloses
Our life's long vista through a lane
Of threescore summers' roses!
One language years alone can teach
Its roots are young affections
That feel their way to simplest speech
Through silent recollections.