THE GLASS
When I am old! Oh Love, who well can say
Whether within a year, a month, a day
Or six times ten years that dead time shall come
When Hope is pale and wan Desire stands dumb,
And Love though living, clasps with fingers cold,
When we are old.
I think, perhaps, that Boundary’s dim outline
Will not be crossed by these swift steps of mine,
But while Desire is warm, and Hope still thrills
I shall go hence and look from unseen hills
On mighty scrolls of centuries unrolled,
I still not old.
To Be: unpierced by Vision. Break the Glass!
But if fourscore and ten my years should pass,
Witness, dear eyes! Mine, looking back, shall see
Towers of strength, and Peaceful Seas, and Thee,
And Love, a fragrant cerement, my heart shall fold
When I am old.