  NAY, rail not, dear, at Time in such rude way, ’Tis scarcely fair, since he has been our host For such a while. And rail not at the world, This grey old ivy-covered manor-house wherein He long has entertained us both. Since we Have broken bread with him, danced in his halls, Let us not talk of him in slighting way. What though He has not given lavishly, For daily use, the rich things in his store? Rare things grow common, quite, when they are used In common way—you know this for yourself— And delicacies lose their flavor when The palate tires of them. But ah, on state Occasions has he not been prodigal? O wine of life that he has poured for us! Poured freely till it ran the goblet o’er, And trickled down in little rosy streams! Believe me, dear, for all his length of beard So snowy white, his venerable air, To make him lenient with foolishness. For often has he stolen off and left Us standing heart to heart, And has he not Sometimes, stilled all his house lest we should wake Too soon from some wrapt dream of tenderness? Then, too, for playthings he has given us hours Filled full enough of rapture unalloyed To cover every day of all the years With common happiness if properly Spread out. As for this grey old world, It is not half so murk, so wanting in All light, all glow, and warmth, as some declare— As we oft picture to ourselves, my dear, It has its windows looking east and west, It has its sunset and its morning gold; The trouble is we will look toward the east At eventide, and toward the sombre west When heaven is shaking down upon the world, A lusty infant day. And so we miss The glory of the sunset and the dawn. |
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