Classic Poem

A LITTLE more toward the light;
Me miserable! Here's one that's white;
And one that's turning;
Adieu to song and " salad days; "
My Muse, let's go at once to Jay's,
And order mourning.

We must reform our rhymes, my Dear, —
Renounce the gay for the severe, —
Be grave, not witty;
We have, no more, the right to find
That Pyrrha's hair is neatly twined, —
That Chloe's pretty.

Young Love's for us a farce that's played;
Light canzonet and serenade
No more may tempt us;
Gray hairs but ill accord with dreams;
From aught but sour didactic themes
Our years exempt us.

Indeed! you really fancy so?
You think for one white streak we grow
At once satiric?
A fiddlestick! Each hair's a string
To which our ancient Muse shall sing
A younger lyric.

The heart's still sound. Shall " cakes and ale "
Grow rare to youth because we rail
At schoolboy dishes?
Perish the thought! 'Tis ours to chant
When neither Time nor Tide can grant
Belief with wishes.