Not from successful love alone,
Nor wealth, nor honored middle-age,
Nor victories of politics or war;
But as life wanes, and all the turbulent passions calm,
As gorgeous, vapory, silent hues cover the evening sky,
As softness, fulness, rest, suffuse the frame like fresher, balmier air,
As the days take on a mellower light,
And the apple at last hangs really finish'd and indolent-ripe on the tree,
Then for the teeming quietest, happiest days of all,
The brooding and blissful halcyon days! | | | Walt Whitman |
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