I know an old lady of over fourscore, Who is sweet as the blossoms that bloom by her door. Though the frost of her winters has silvered her hair, It still has some lusterful shadows to spare; And the light that burns low in her spectacled eyes Will often blaze up in a way to surprise; For there 's youth in her heart, though there 's age in her face, And her mind retains all of its maidenly grace. This charming old lady resides in a town Where the flowers look up and the maples look down, And the homes have their orchards and vineyards and lawns, And the days have most radiant sunsets and dawns; There 's a maundering river that ceaselessly rills And a lake like an opal set low in the hills; There 's a one-story cot in an old apple grove, And there lives this darling old lady I love. The yield of her low-laden trees and her vines Is rarer than tropical fruits and fine wines; For she gives it a flavor with smile and kind thought That is free as the sunshine, but cannot be bought. Her flowers grow gayly in shadow or sun, But the rose in her cheek is the prettiest one, And her delicate heart that has blossomed for years Sheds fragrance distilled from her joys and her tears. |