There you stand
At the holy gate,
Before the hallowed
And mighty greens,
And the season of year,
Is immortal spring
And every star,
And every night
Is seen in a day.


All things mortal

But all things high and bright will cease to be,
The sweet-browed icons of world proper,
The honey-filled composers of lustrous song,
The pink-coated lilies by the river-bed,
The reigning crane and birds of paradise,
The monuments of times and kingdoms made,
The doomed age and furtherers of revolt,
A new day,and murderers of reason.

Weep not anew

When softly weeps the rock of age,
Then swiftly gleams
A ray of woe,
And how oft
Have we heard it told,
The pacing fears
And the make of decay,
The whippings
And the ravish in a day,
The pain-filled murmurs
Of those toddlers bred,
The beatings
And molesting of the aged,
The ravages and tears of maidens
To bear.


But I have only gleaned the years
And weariness on me appears,
My youthful joys are past return,
Fortune and happiness to earn,
My few talents and heyday poise,
My greatness an expert employs,
My love and the offspring I sire
All that I recall in this mire.
Where shall I dwell in the bower
And boast then with leafy power,
When nothing else is bright,
To redeem,and delight.

To her

When I seek and long for the maiden grand,
I do but propose the feast of marriage,
For my ripe age doth true manhood command
And the mellowed beard doth mark the mileage,
I saw you first that kindergarten day
And trod home with you when the school was done,
I held your hand and made through colds of may,
And dare I speak,you be second to none.