I'm growing old, and yet no fear
Of death or grave appals me;
Still, as in days of youth, the dear
Sweet love of life enthrals me;
And still my spirit gladly hears
The music of the flying years.
I'm growing old; my hands, my limbs
Less supple are, less light;
And sometimes a strange mist bedims—
By tears begot—my sight,
But still with steady steps my soul
Fares bravely on toward her goal.
I'm growing old; Life's tree has shed
Its blossoms long ago;
The winds that blow about my head
Are chill with sleet and snow,
Yet they, in some mysterious way,
Still bring the violet scent of May.
I'm growing old; alas! so far
My youth behind me lies,
It seems to be a phantom-star
In dream-imagined skies,
And yet one touch of Memory's wand
Transports me to youth's fairy-land.
I'm growing old—how swiftly flies
Time's shuttle through the loom!
Weaving before my very eyes
My garment for the tomb;
Yet fear I not, nor feel I pain,
Beyond the grave I'll live again!