Years are coming hither

Years are coming hither When this heart so gay, Much I fear will wither! Youth is gone away. Men are brothers—brothers! Oh! I tremble then, Lest I grow as others Of my fellow-men.

Those of whims and wrinkles, Once were blithe as I; Heads that frost besprinkles, Once look’d bonnily; And where winter lingers Upon the old man’s curls, Have play’d the taper fingers Of well-beloved girls.

Oh, must the years come on me When these are no delight! Must frost-work fall upon me, And deadliness and blight; This heart that loves the summer, Be chilly as the cold; And I be dim, and dumber Than the mummies of the Old!

And am I surely growing In soul and senses seal’d, Like him who, all unknowing, Is frozen and congeal’d! I know it—ah, I know it; Of all the world ’tis true; And the fibres of the poet Must break—or toughen too.

Thank God with all my spirit For my only, only cheer, Since I learn’d that I inherit A destiny so drear. But now I care not for it, And welcome is the grave; Oh why should I abhor it, Since only it can save!

I’ve seen a worm that weaveth His shroud as with delight; Then sleeps, as who believeth, He only bids good night. Then up again he springeth, A wing’d and elfin form; Away, away he wingeth, An angel from a worm!

Wise worm! and I, his brother, Will learn from him to live! A lesson that no other So beautiful can give. Oh, weave in life thy swathing, And then in Christ repose! Who maketh life a plaything Is born to many woes.