SITTING by my fire alone, When the winds are rough and cold, And I feel myself grow old Thinking of the summers flown, I have many a harmless art To beguile the tedious time: Sometimes reading some old rhyme I already know by heart; Sometimes singing over words Which in youth's dear day gone by Sounded sweet, so sweet that I Had no praises for the birds. Then, from off its secret shelf I from dust and moth remove The old garment of my love, In the which I wrap myself. And a little while am vain; But its rose hue will not bear The sad light of faded hair; So I fold it up again, More in patience than regret Not a leaf the forest through But is sung and whispered to. I shall wear that garment yet. |