Classic Poem

When I was young the twilight seemed too long.
How often on the western window-seat
— — I leaned my book against the misty pane
— — And spelled the last enchanting lines again,
The while my mother hummed an ancient song,
Or sighed a little and said: " The hour is sweet! "
When I, rebellious, clamored for the light.

But now I love the soft approach of night,
— — And now with folded hands I sit and dream
— — While all too fleet the hours of twilight seem;
And thus I know that I am growing old.

O granaries of Age! O manifold
And royal harvest of the common years!
There are in all thy treasure-house no ways
But lead by soft descent and gradual slope
To memories more exquisite than hope.
Thine is the Iris born of olden tears,
And thrice more happy are the happy days
That live divinely in the lingering rays.