The Crown Of Years

Years grow and gather—each a gem Lustrous with laughter and with tears, And cunning Time a crown of years Contrives for her who weareth them. No chance can snatch this diadem, It trembles not with hopes or fears, It shines before the rose appears, And when the leaves forsake her stem. Time sets his jewels one by one. Then wherefore mourn the wreaths that lie In attic chambers of the past? They withered ere the day was done. This coronal will never die, Nor shall you lose it at the last.