An April snow! — 't is as the head of youth
Just fresh'ning in the spring-time of its hopes,
And glancing to the sunbeam the bright eye,
And to the first rose pouting its rich lip,
Or turning to the morning's blush its cheek,
And to the morning's music its young ear—
Dimpling its chin, as April's rain-drops fall
On the brook's eddy, —'t is as if such head
Of smile, and bloom, and dimple, were adorned
With the white locks of age, that venerably
Spread monitorial sadness — premature;
Weaving the bleached and silvery threads of time,
On the bright texture of a glad boy's eyelash.

So move we on. I 've seen the eye of age
Bright to the last as that of Moses was, —
I 've marked the foot-falls of a man, whose years
Were more than eighty—firm and active too.

Who has not seen the young lid close in pain,
The young knee tremble, and the young heart sink,
And age, old age, encourage and support,
Even as the tree stands, when the buds are nipped,
Tenacious 'till they would fall off, —and then
Bearing the loss!—I've wandered from the theme —
Why should I not? 'My heart is in the coffin,'
Long shall I 'pause till it come back to me.'