Maidens tell me I am old; Let me in my Glasse behold Whether smooth or not I be, Or if haire remaines to me. Well, or be't or be't not so, This for certainty I know; Ill it fits old men to play, When that Death bids come away. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO A WEALTHY MAN by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS THE DEATH OF SLAVERY by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT ROBERT E. LEE by JULIA WARD HOWE SONNET: 104 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE FALSTAFF'S SONG by EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN THE OWL by PHILIP EDWARD THOMAS |