Classic Poem

Oh , no, my friend, you blunder there,
Your guess is far from true;
She has grown dearer many a year,
But not yet " sixty-two. "

Time's careless fingers o'er her head
Have dropped the crystal dew, —
The pearls flow down in silver gloss;
But she's not " sixty-two "

You think she'd seen so much of life,
Alike the old and new,
She must be quite advanced, perhaps, —
Well, far from " sixty-two. "

You might have guessed more wisely, friend,
Had you a better clew;
You judge her by her wisdom? — Well,
She is not " sixty-two. "

Her cheerful face, her bonny curls,
Her heart so warm and true, —
Tell tales of years of joy and love;
But she's not " sixty-two. "

For years, home's sunny bowers more bright
With clustering offshoots grew,
And other bowers have reared their young;
But she's not " sixty-two. "

Diminish it by four, I pray;
Her sky, still bright and blue,
Bends, loving, round her youthful head;
Yet she's not " sixty-two. "

The silvery brown that crowns her brow
Suggests, " Serenely wait,
And sometime, on some pleasant morn,
She'll wake, just fifty-eight. "