Maidens tell me I am old; Let me in my Glasse behold Whether smooth or not I be, Or if haire remaines to me. Well, or be't or be't not so, This for certainty I know; Ill it fits old men to play, When that Death bids come away. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A WAR SONG TO ENGLISHMEN by WILLIAM BLAKE THE FUTURE LIFE by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT ODE ON A GRECIAN URN by JOHN KEATS IRELAND (1847) by DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD by THEODORE O'HARA SOMETIMES by C. MARGARET BRANDT OBSERVATIONS IN THE ART OF ENGLISH POESY: 9. TROCHAIC VERSE: THE FIFTH EPIGRAM by THOMAS CAMPION |