Old Age to Cupid [pp. 532]

OLD AGE TO CUPI)D.
LOVE'S dead leaves rustle in the winter wind.
Unchecked the breezes through its branches blow.
No tender green a new spring there will find, Boy, bend on me no more your golden bow.
Let the young lover vital deem his flame,
And pale and glow contented, in my stead;
Finding more precious far than gain or fame
That eyes be blue and hair white-filleted.
To him let come the vagrant tender pain
Of watching love grow in a maiden heart.
I neither praise nor envy him his gain, Boy, sheathe your arrow, sheathe your gilded dart.
For now I have so shaken hands with life
That to its lures I lift but level eyes.
No more for me love's tears and hapless strife,
Its restless fears and blisses of surprise.
Ay, sheathe your shaft, boy! No more will I lie
Wide-eyed at sleep's shut gate because love guiles.
Nor tread the pleasing maze, where pulse beats high,
But heart-break trembles in the train of smiles.
For now the calm sweet quietude of age
The warmth of windless sunlight and the glow
Of peaceful dusks- comes as just heritage, Boy, bend on me no more your golden bow.
Francis E. Sheldon.
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