Classic Poem

If I could write as once I wrote,
And sigh as once I sighed,
When in Hope's silken-pinioned boat,
I glided o'er Love's tide —
Sweet Mary, what a shower of darts
Would fall upon the page!
But I have ceased to doat on hearts,
And only think of age.

I'm very sure your eyes are bright,
Your hair a glossy brown,
You're not above the usual height,
Smile oft and seldom frown,
And that your presence joy imparts,
Life's sorrows to assuage;
But I have ceased to doat on hearts,
And only think of age.

Some silver in my locks appears,
Some furrows on my brow,
Once I was prodigal of years,
I hoard my moments now;
My head with sharp reflection smarts,
I'm growing wondrous sage;
For I have ceased to doat on hearts,
And only think of age.

I used to be a wretched man,
If ladies were unkind;
But now I do the best I can
And keep a sober mind.
My sweetmeats all have turned to tarts,
And yet I never rage;
For I have ceased to doat on hearts,
And only think of age.

Still, though I give my days to books,
And seldom dream o' nights,
There's something in your lovely looks,
In which my soul delights;
And Fancy all unbidden starts,
And flutters in her cage;
Though I have ceased to doat on hearts,
And only think of age.