As it wakes again, like a Rip Van Winkle,
With a heritage of rag and wrinkle,
The jest of Time.
With a heritage of rag and wrinkle,
The jest of Time.
As soft as the tress of the bashful maiden,
You stole one day when the tress was laden
With tasselled bloom,
It seemeth now, and your touch is tender,
Tender as love, for the thread is slender
That stays its doom.
You stole one day when the tress was laden
With tasselled bloom,
It seemeth now, and your touch is tender,
Tender as love, for the thread is slender
That stays its doom.
As brown as the leaf of the last October,
Its smiles are tears and its wit is sober
In later days;
As the fountain, that springs with a laugh of bubbles,
Is hushed in the sweep of wider troubles
Of creeks and bays.
Its smiles are tears and its wit is sober
In later days;
As the fountain, that springs with a laugh of bubbles,
Is hushed in the sweep of wider troubles
Of creeks and bays.
Whispers sweet as the dry-lipped flowers,
Uttered in lonesome autumn bowers,
When the birds have flown,
Are faintly breathed by these withered pages,
That knew the language of roseate ages,
Once your own.
Uttered in lonesome autumn bowers,
When the birds have flown,
Are faintly breathed by these withered pages,
That knew the language of roseate ages,
Once your own.
And wistful shadows now delay on
The sportive freaks of its fleeting crayon,
Faded so—
And yet so sure in the fond recalling
Of the dear bygones into Lethe falling,
Long ago.
The sportive freaks of its fleeting crayon,
Faded so—
And yet so sure in the fond recalling
Of the dear bygones into Lethe falling,
Long ago.
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