Classic Poem

AT SIXTY YEARS OF AGE .

A T love my Helen 's an adept,
Yet calls my age a secret kept;
She tells me, with her speaking eyes,
That Love can still ensnare his prize;
Her lips, though mute, the tale repeat,
That Love 's the master of the seat;
The wrinkles fly at Helen's view,
Her folding arms the boy renew, —
With her alone my heart can prove
That mine 's at least the age for love.