Classic Poem

Age makes confession, if it urge
That grey of head is boyhood's brown:
Is ebbing wave the shoreward surge?
Does Autumn wear an April gown?

Although at morn and even play
The mysteries of twilight dim,
It is an empty word to say
The evening is the morning hymn.

But nothing is it less divine,
With all the holy night in fee:
The Morning, and one world was mine;
The Night,—a heaven of worlds I see!

O joy for what the years teach well,
The trust that this one world we know—
How bright, how dear, no song can tell—
Of those is only embryo!