Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/682

 O the joys, that came down shower-like, Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, Ere I was old! Ere I was old? Ah, woful Ere, Which tells me, Youth's no longer here! O Youth! for years so many and sweet, 'Tis known that thou and I were one; I'll think it but a fond conceit— It cannot be that thou art gone! Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd— And thou wert aye a masker bold! What strange disguise hast now put on, To make believe that thou art gone? I see these locks in silvery slips, This drooping gait, this alter'd size: But springtide blossoms on thy lips, And tears take sunshine from thine eyes! Life is but thought: so think I will That Youth and I are housemates still.

Dewdrops are the gems of morning, But the tears of mournful eve! Where no hope is, life's a warning That only serves to make us grieve, When we are old! That only serves to make us grieve With oft and tedious taking-leave, Like some poor nigh-related guest That may not rudely be dismist. Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while, And tells the jest without the smile.