AT seventy years one well might choose To pause in service to the Muse; Nor counts it much for blame or praise To him whose brow is bound with bays If she be kindly, or refuse. Least -- least of all, need we excuse The Bard who, backward-looking, views But blameless songs and blameless days At seventy years! And yet, Sing on. While life renews Its morning skies, its evening hues, Still may you walk in rhythmic ways Companioned of the lyre whose lays None -- in this tuneless time -- would lose At seventy years! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RAIN-SONGS by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR KEENAN'S CHARGE by GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP PROUD MAISIE, FR. THE HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN by WALTER SCOTT SONG TO THE MEN OF ENGLAND by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY JUVENTA PERENNIS by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN |