To tell me that I’m old—bid me put off
The misty mantle of life’s morning dreams,
And plod in dull indifference to the grave.
Why, ’tis a lie! I feel the air as fresh—
I scent the fragrance of this beauteous eve
As gratefully—I watch the paling moon
Stealing to her magnificent repose
Behind the starry curtains of the west,
With as unchanged and vigorous delight
As when, a boy, beside my own dear lake