Classic Poem

He 's no lad,—my love 's no lad,—
He 's past full manhood's prime;
He never stole a curl from me,
Or sent me bits of rhyme.
But when he folds me in his arm,
I feel so sweetly safe from harm!

He 's no lad,—my love 's no lad,—
No fickle, foolish boy;
And time has written on his face
The lines of pain and joy.
He often looks both tired and sad,
But I—what joy!—can make him glad.

He 's no lad,—my love 's no lad,—
His youth has passed him by;
And though I had no part in it,
I cannot breathe one sigh,
For, oh, he swears by holy truth
I am his sweeter, second youth!