Poems (Sharpless)/Growing Old

by Frances M. Sharpless

For works with similar titles, see Growing Old.

GROWING OLD

'Mid autumn's glowing fruitage, does the tree bloom,
 Mourn for the vanished days of spring-time,
Regret the tossing, white and rosy sea
 Of tender color, delicate perfume?

Say, does the river bearing on its breast
 The stately vessels to the busy mart,
Long for the shadow of its mossy nest,
 Amid the ferns, far in the forest's heart?

Does it bewail those merry chattering hours
 Wherein it mirrored only sky and trees,
Until it left the simple meadow flowers
 To seek the distant bosom of the seas?

Neither may I, upon life's harvest field,
 Mourn for youth's scenes of mingled pride and bliss;
Fairer they surely were, yet could not yield
 The deeper sense of peace that follows this.

Onward—still onward, with a constant mind,
 And hands more powerful to bless and cheer;
Onward I press nor grieve to leave behind
 The shifting pageants of my human year.

Not weakly can I mourn my vanished May,
 Or dread the coming of the dark December;
While still in loving eyes I look, and say,
 "Friend of my youth! oh, dost thou not remember?"