  One day, in spring, I took a walk And spied, within a field of green, A slender dandelion stock, Upon whose top a flower was seen. Soon after, passing by the place, I noticed that the flower of gold, Whose stiffened stalk had lost it’s grace, Was turning gray and growing old. To-day, upon the self same ground, I see a stalk undecked and spare; The flower that once was golden-crowned, Has lost it’s gray—it’s head is bare. How like a child is this gay flower, With golden hair and graceful mien, Which comes to brighten many an hour And add a charm to dullest scene! But soon the golden turns to gray And middle life comes on apace; The gray then hurries on its way, And old age comes to take it’s place. |
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