To a Young Lady on Her Birthday

The marching years go by

And brush your garment's hem.

The bandits by and by

Will bid you go with them.

Trust not that caravan!

Old vagabonds are they;

They'll rob you if they can,

And make believe it's play.

Make the old robbers give

Of all the spoils they bear,—

Their truth, to help you live,—

Their joy, to keep you fair.

Ask not for gauds nor gold,

Nor fame that falsely rings;

The foolish world grows old

Caring for all these things.

Make all your sweet demands

For happiness alone,

And the years will fill your hands

With treasures rarely known.