Poetry Archives

When passing years have streaked with frost
  These tresses now as jet,
When life’s meridian is crossed
  And beauty’s sun has set,
When youth’s last fleeting charm is lost,
  Wilt thou be constant yet,
Nor time thy sentiment exhaust
  And cause thee to forget?
    If so—
      My answer, I confess,
    Shall be a calm, decided “Yes”;
      But otherwise a “No”!