  N. P. WILLIS. I love to look on a scene like this, Of wild and careless play, And persuade myself that I am not old, And my locks are not yet gray; For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart. And makes his pulses fly, To catch the thrill of a happy voice; And the light of a pleasant eye. I have walked the world for four score years, And they say that I am old— That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, And my years are well-nigh told. It is very true—it is very true— I am old, and I "bide my time;" But my heart will leap at a scene like this, And I half renew my prime. Play on! play on! I am with you there, In the midst of your merry ring; I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, And the rush of the breathless swing. I hide with you in the fragrant hay, And I whoop the smothered call, And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, And I care not for the fall. I am willing to die when my time shall come, And I shall be glad to go— For the world, at best, is a dreary place, And my pulse is getting low; But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail In treading its gloomy way; And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, To see the young so gay. |
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