poems.
93
And breath of early spring-flowers
Wafts through the open door.
Wafts through the open door.
The old man starts—awakes—and lo,
Behold, 'tis all a dream!
And the sun is softly shining on,
With gladsome, happy beam.
The aged hand is lifted up,
The breezes softly play,
And he whispers now in solemn tones,
"I'm old; I'm old to-day."
Behold, 'tis all a dream!
And the sun is softly shining on,
With gladsome, happy beam.
The aged hand is lifted up,
The breezes softly play,
And he whispers now in solemn tones,
"I'm old; I'm old to-day."
