  These years! these years! these naughty years! Once they were pretty things: Their fairy footfalls met our ears, Our eyes their glancing wings. They flitted by our school-boy way; We chased the little imps at play. We knew them, soon, for tricksy elves: They brought the college gown, With thoughtful books filled up our shelves, Darkened our lips with down, Played with our throat, and lo! the tone Of manhood had become our own. They smiling stretched our childish size; Their soft hands trimmed our hair; Cast the deep thought within our eyes, And left it glowing there; Sang songs of hope in college halls, Bright fancies drew upon the walls. They flashed upon us love's bright gem; They showed us gleams of fame; Stout-hearted work we learned from them, And honor more than name: And so they came, and went away; We said not go, we said not stay. But one sweet day, when quiet skies And still leaves brought me thought, When hazy hills drew forth my eyes, And woods with deep shade fraught, That day I carelessly found out What work these elves had been about. Alas! those little rogues, the years, Had fooled me many a day, Plucked half the locks above my ears, And tinged the rest all gray. They'd left me wrinkles great and small. I fear that they have tricked us all. Well,—give the little years their way; Think, speak, and act the while; Lift up the bare front to the day, And make their wrinkles smile. They mould the noblest living head; They carve the best tomb for the dead. Robert T. S. Lowell. |
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