Classic Poem

I' VE known and loved her many a year
Since first I called her mine.
" How many years? " I'll tell you, friend, —
Why, fifty years and nine;
So many years we talked of " ours, "
And never " mine " and " thine. "

She must be quite advanced, I think, —
A queen with silver hair.
Oh, never mind the months and days;
The things that people wear
Are all outside; there's something else,
That's ever young and fair.

'Tis love that makes the joy of life, —
Love, the best gift of heaven;
A clasp that holds when meaner ties
Grow feeble, or are riven;
It keeps its circle perfect, like
The Hebrew number " seven. "

And so the years have trundled on,
Alike in calm and storm;
Our birdies, in bright plumage dressed,
Of comely growth and form,
Have fled the nest, — the dear old nest, —
And still the nest is warm.

The world is better for the songs
Thy fairy lips have sung;
And sweeter for the fragrant flowers
Around thy pathway flung, —
God's gift, as true in silvery age
As when they called thee " young. "

Queen of my heart, queen of my house,
Its gladness and its sun,
Dear for the thousand things thou art,
For thousands thou hast done,
Blest are the years thy life has spanned,
Thy fourscore years and one.