AN OLD HEART

How young I am! Ah! heaven, this curse of youth Doth mock me from my mirror with great eyes, And pulsing veins repeat the unwelcome truth, That I must live, though hope within me dies.

So young, and yet I have had all of life. Why, men have lived to see a hundred years, Who have not known the rapture, joy, and strife Of my brief youth, its passion and its tears.

Oh! what are years? A ripe three score and ten Hold often less of life, in its best sense, Than just a twelvemonth lived by other men, Whose high-strung souls are ardent and intense.

But having seen all depths and scaled all heights, Having a heart love thrilled, and sorrow wrung, Knowing all pains, all pleasures, all delights, Now I would die—but cannot, being young.

Nothing is left me, but supreme despair; The bitter dregs that tell of wasted wine. Come furrowed brow, dull eye, and frosted hair, Companions fit for this old heart of mine.