Poems (Argent)/Growing Old

by Alice Emily Argent

For works with similar titles, see Growing Old.

GROWING OLD.

THE autumn of the year is here
 And through the windy wold,
A voice is going forth that says,
 "The year is growing old."
But yet on high a sweet bird sings,
And to the heart some solace brings.

No more the tender leaves of May
 Move trembling in the breeze,
For clad in russet-brown and gold
 Stand forth the forest trees.
Yet from the earth late violets rise
Coloured like hope in children's eyes.

The warm breath of the summer morn,
 Its level falls of light,
Come now no more o'er meadow grass
 Once starred with daisies bright,
Yet on the holly-bough there grows
Berries as dear as summer rose.

The first fresh radiance of the spring,
 The beauty of its noon
Which sets in autumn, seems too fair
 To fade and die so soon.
Yet underneath the dark moist earth
The buds are waiting second birth,

Not very far old Winter stands
 In garments grim and grey,
With hoary locks and sceptre dim
 Of ice which wields his sway,
Yet bursting from his chilly snows
He brings a gift, the Christmas rose!

And kindly is the phantom smile
 That flickers o'er his face,
His heart is full of kindly warmth,
 His welcome breathes in grace,
Doth he not open wide the door
Of human hearts in rich and poor?

My joyous spring of youth is past,
 Its wealth of sunny hours
Are gone for ever! they have died,
 As die the spring's dear flowers,
Yet in God's sky the stars still shine,
The stars of love, and they are mine.

The fuller life of summer, too,
 Has passed away and fled,
Into the tract of Time's wide sea,
 The sea that holds the dead,
Yet o'er me still the same sun gleams,
And keeps for me my summer dreams.

And now the autumn of my life,
 Its tranquillising light,
Is round me, but I do not fear
 The dark that brings the night:
For fairer than the silver ray
Of yonder moon is promised Day!