Classic Poem

I sorrow for youth — ah, not for its wildness (would that were dead!)
but for those soft nests of time that enticed the maiden bloom
of delight and tenderness to break in delicate air
— O her eyes in the rosy face that bent over our first babe!
but all that was, and is gone, and shall be all forgotten;
it fades and wanes even now: and who is there care but I?
and I grieve for my heart that is old and cannot cease from regret.
Ay, might our harms be haven'd in some deathless heart:
but where have I felt its over-brooding luminous tent
save in those eyes of delight (and ah! that they must change)
and of yore in her eyes to whom we ran with our childish joy?
O brother! if such there were and each of us might lead each
to lean above the little pools where all our heart
lies spilt and clear and shining along the dusky way
and dream of one that could save it all and salve our ache!