Yes; with heavy dashing
Of a shower just shed
On the gloomy beech-tree,
Wet were leaves o’erhead.
Wet were all the roses
On the garden wire,
Wet were all the cornfield’s
Flakes of yellow fire.
By the gloomy beech-tree,
By the rose o’er-blowing,
Looking on the cornfields
Whence the gold was going,
Walked I sadly thinking,
‘I am no more young,’
When among the dripping
Leaves a wild bird sung.
Ah! I thought, it chanted
Some immortal strain
Of a silver sunshine
Coming after rain;
Of a richer flushing
On a finer rose;
Of a tint more golden
Than the autumn knows.
Yes; with sorrow wetted
In life’s autumn day,
Is the cheek full often
When the hair grows gray:
All the leaves and blossoms
Drip with rain of tears,
And the sheaves lie sodden
On the field of years.
Then a sweet bird singeth
Of a joy that lies
In the grief that’s truer
Happiness in disguise;
Sings of youth more lasting,
Sunlight more divine-
Gentle bird, sweet Spirit,
What a song is thine!
Forty seems as old age
In youth’s happy light.
Fifty counts as nonage
When the head is white.
Fifty, sixty, seventy-
Old age cometh never,
If the Life gives the life
Which is for ever and ever.
(Archbishop William Alexander)
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Based on Topics: Life Poems, Light Poems, Mind Poems, Joy & Excitement Poems, Youth Poems, Fire Poems, Thought & Thinking Poems, Gold Poems, Birds Poems, Hair Poems, Grief PoemsBased on Keywords: cornfield, wetted, beech-tree, nonage