But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff,
And a crook is in his back
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.
I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin
At him here;
But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that,
Are so queer!
And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring,
Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.
AS SEEN AT SEVENTY.
I was a little over twenty years old when I wrote "The Last Leaf." The world was a garden to me then; it is a churchyard now. And yet those are not bitter or scalding tears that fall from my eyes upon "mossy marbles."
The young who left my side early in my life's journey are still with me in the unchanged freshness and beauty of youth. Those who have long kept company with me live on after their seeming departure, were it only by the mere force of habit; their images are all around me, as if every surface had been a sensitive film that photographed them; their voices echo about me as if they had been recorded on those unforgotten cylinders which bring back to us the tones and accents that have imprinted them as the extinct animals left their tracks on the hardened sand.
The melancholy of old age has a divine tenderness in it, which only the sad experience of life can lend a sad soul.
The Gridiron.
BY SAMUEL LOVER.