SIXTY.
285
So with the heart: call, and from out the deep
They come, those joyous memories, with a leap,
Telling of years whose gladness lends a gleam
Of sunshine even to age's sluggish stream.
They come, those joyous memories, with a leap,
Telling of years whose gladness lends a gleam
Of sunshine even to age's sluggish stream.
And therefore do we love them, and the shore
Whence first we set forth on our pilgrimage,
When we were hopeful, hoping evermore
That each succeeding was the promised stage
Which young ambition longed for; when as yet
Little we had to grieve for or regret;
Ere hope died in us, and that happy shore
Faded, and we its fragrance breathed no more.
Whence first we set forth on our pilgrimage,
When we were hopeful, hoping evermore
That each succeeding was the promised stage
Which young ambition longed for; when as yet
Little we had to grieve for or regret;
Ere hope died in us, and that happy shore
Faded, and we its fragrance breathed no more.
"Sixty," again the old man softly said,
With faltering voice, as if that little word
Contained somewhat to mourn for and to dread,—
Something that from its aimless slumbers stirred
His spirit into wakefulness: a light
Seemed to break on him through a world of night,
Yet brought no comfort to his troubled mind;
The moments lost how could he hope to find?
With faltering voice, as if that little word
Contained somewhat to mourn for and to dread,—
Something that from its aimless slumbers stirred
His spirit into wakefulness: a light
Seemed to break on him through a world of night,
Yet brought no comfort to his troubled mind;
The moments lost how could he hope to find?
For he had let them pass unheeded by,
As if unworthy of a better fate;
And close upon their steps, reluctantly,
Age plodded after, sere and desolate.
As if unworthy of a better fate;
And close upon their steps, reluctantly,
Age plodded after, sere and desolate.
