HOW bravely now I face the marching days, With Youth's strong armor to defy the years! Nought now I know of the sharp sting of tears, Nor of the bleak and solitary ways Where Sorrow calls her children. Nought dismays My April spirit; and the night appears Like some far-distant prospect without fears. Youth, youth is mine, and youth's strong, fearless gaze. But when the twilight shall at length abide, And I have neared the shadowy bourne and vast, How will it be? . . . Shall the night overcast My soul, and shall my sword have softly sighed Back to its scabbard? . . . Nay, when Youth has died, Old Age shall take me tenderly at last. |