Ii

Whom the Gods love die old! O life, dear life, Let the old sing thy praises, for they know How year by year the summers come and go, Each with its own abounding sweetness rife! They know, though frosts be cruel as the knife, Yet with each June the perfect rose shall blow, And daisies blossom and the green grass grow, Triumphant still, unvexed by storm or strife. They know that night more splendid is than day; That sunset skies flame in the gathering dark, And the deep waters change to molten gold; They know that Autumn richer is than May; They hear the night-birds singing like the lark-- Ah, life, sweet life, whom the Gods love die old!