I

A N ancient fogy, fifty-five,
Utterly past all frolic and fun,
I think of the days when I was alive —
There was blood in the veins of Twenty-one.
I take from the shelf an old old book,
With a date scarce seen on its dingy back,
Eagerly through its leaves I look . . .
'Tis Twenty-one's old almanac.

II

Easter Day was April twelve:
Do you remember it, Amy, you?
Though deep in the churchyard mould I delve
Yet shall I not find those eyes of blue.
Beautiful garrulous sweet young thing!
I plucked the lilac's fragrant snow
From a tall bush wet with the dews of spring —
This is its very last leaf, I know.

III

You shook your hair with the dew besprinkled;
You placed the bloom in your fair young breast;
And over the grass your little feet twinkled
As we took the path that seemed the best.
Gay with the daring of Twenty-one
I drank the wine of my life that day:
What words were uttered, what deeds were done,
Over the hills and far away?

IV

I know where beautiful Amy's hid:
I know that if I should dig down there
And shatter a hideous coffin-lid
I should find her bones — perchance her hair.
But I never shall know until I die,
Looking my last on the weary sun,
Where is the strength that once was I —
In what dark grave lies Twenty-one.