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There are some things still in this life of ours
The years weed not away,
But reverse the fate of dying flowers,
And bloom but in decay.
So I look back through the many years
Whose suns have long since set,
And feel, like the coming up of tears,
The old love living yet.
O the heart will wither up, when youth
Withdraws its fleeting light,
And think no more with the same sweet truth
That fed it day and night;
But amid the wreck of all we see,
And the cares that come and fret,
It will keep a bud from the blighted tree
Of the old love living yet.
There gathers still, like a mighty thought,
Around that magic name,
All the beating of a heart that brought
Its strength to one sweet aim;
And the flush and warmth of those early dreams--
Ah, what heart could e'er forget!
Will waken up like the sun's first beams
At the old love living yet.
So I think, as a dying light is toss'd
From the gladness seen behind,
That whatever we in our youth have lost
But models the future mind;
And I weep as I think how my hopes may fall
Like the leaves when the winds are met,
And leave in my heart a scorn for all
Save the old love living yet.
Category: Love Author: Alexander Anderson
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| I look back to my early life,
When I was seventeen or so;
When Love first shed his rosy strife,
And made my brain and bosom glow.
When first a maiden, full of grace,
And fair as the wild flowers of Spring,
Came smiling from some fairy place,
And made my life a golden thing.
I worshipp'd her as all divine--
I worshipp'd her with glorious truth;
I flung upon that early shrine
The brightest hopes that fed my youth.
I wrote in many a secret rhyme,
Her charms of brow and neck of snow;
I held such poems then sublime--
I burn'd them three long years ago.
I built up many a lordly dome--
Alladin's could not cope with mine;
In Fancy's car I brought her home,
And whisper'd to her, "All is thine."
I knelt before her, free from doubt,
To kiss the hand that wore the ring;
I woke up. Jove! The fire was out,
And found that there was no such thing.
To sing of all my fits and whims,
And raptures of that golden time,
The bliss fit match for a cherubim's
Were all beyond my powers of rhyme.
Suffice it, when the bubble burst,
And I was left to weep and blame,
I thought of doing some deed accursed
As worthy of my blighted name.
I sang, in real Byronic strain,
My woes to every listening tree;
The wind sang chorus to my pain,
And howl'd in sympathy with me.
I wrote my epitaph each day,
To grace my lone, romantic rest.
I'm living still, and, strange to say,
There's no romance about my breast.
But is that maiden now forgot,
And all the warmth of long ago?
Ah, no! She lives still in my thought,
But not with such an angel glow.
For years have come, and I the while
See human things are less divine;
But still, if you would have me smile,
Don't mention that first love of mine.
Category: Romantic Love Author: Alexander Anderson
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