The old men will crowd Fireward, and sigh, "Alack, She who was proud With hair more sleek and black "Than a crow's wing on snow Is now burnt to gray -- That proud things pass so, Alack," they will say. The old men will nod Each one a palsied head: "Straight as a rod She was, with lips more red "And curled than any Poppy after rain -- That she, loved by many, Should live alone with pain!" The old men will chatter, For they will never guess That years cannot matter Or spent loveliness. . . . A heart that is given Once to the urgent flame, Lips that are shriven With a beloved name, Bear love's extreme Honor; and breast and brow Are set with a dream -- No years can mock her now Who gravely meets Time with a sharper truth Than beauty earth defeats Or the light lance of youth. . . . (But the old men will crowd Fireward, and sigh and say, "She who was proud, Alack, is bent and gray. . . .") |