AN OLD HEART

How young I am! Ah! heaven, this curse of youth

Doth mock me from my mirror with great eyes,

And pulsing veins repeat the unwelcome truth,

That I must live, though hope within me dies.

So young, and yet I have had all of life.

Why, men have lived to see a hundred years,

Who have not known the rapture, joy, and strife

Of my brief youth, its passion and its tears.

Oh! what are years? A ripe three score and ten

Hold often less of life, in its best sense,

Than just a twelvemonth lived by other men,

Whose high-strung souls are ardent and intense.

But having seen all depths and scaled all heights,

Having a heart love thrilled, and sorrow wrung,

Knowing all pains, all pleasures, all delights,

Now I would die — but cannot, being young.

Nothing is left me, but supreme despair;

The bitter dregs that tell of wasted wine.

Come furrowed brow, dull eye, and frosted hair,

Companions fit for this old heart of mine.