WHEN I was young the twilight seemed too long. How often on the western window seat I leaned my book against the misty pane And spelled the last enchanting lines again, The while my mother hummed an ancient song, Or sighed a little and said: "The hour is sweet!" When I, rebellious, clamoured for the light. But now I love the soft approach of night, And now with folded hands I sit and dream While all too fleet the hours of twilight seem; And thus I know that I am growing old. O granaries of Age! O manifold And royal harvest of the common years! There are in all thy treasure-house no ways But lead by soft descent and gradual slope To memories more exquisite than Hope. Thine is the Iris born of olden tears, And thrice more happy are the happy days That live divinely in thy lingering rays. So autumn roses bear a lovelier flower; So in the emerald after-sunset hour The orchard wall and trembling aspen trees Appear an infinite Hesperides. Ay, as at dusk we sit with folded hands, Who knows, who cares in what enchanted lands We wander while the undying memories throng? When I was young the twilight seemed too long. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SACK OF BALTIMORE by THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS A WIFE IN LONDON by THOMAS HARDY WHY I WRITE NOT OF LOVE by BEN JONSON SONNET: 148 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE FLORAL DECORATIONS FOR BANANAS by WALLACE STEVENS WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF OUR BELOVED GENERAL STONEWALL JACKSON by CAROLINE AUGUSTA BALL |