They err who measure life by years,
With false or thoughtless tongue;
Some hearts grow old before their time;
Others are always young.
It is not the number of the lines
On life's fast filling page,
It is not the pulse's added throbs,
Which constitute their age.
Some souls are serfs among the free,
While others nobly thrive;
They stand just where their fathers stood
Dead, even while they live.
Others, all spirit, heart, and sense,
Theirs the mysterious power
To live in thrills of joy or woe,
A twelvemonth in an hour!
No comments:
Post a Comment