FOR A PICTURE OF AN OLD MAN PAUSING IN HIS WORK OF CUTTING THISTLES TO LET A LITTLE GIRL PICK A FLOWER
AGE pauses on his toilsome way
To let youth pluck her flowers of play;
Flowers are not always, but we may
Cut thorns and thistles any day.
Would Fate but hold her hand one hour,
Then might we pluck love's perfect flower;
Yet full security might miss
The perfume of one hour like this.
For all our joys are snatched from Fate,
Through years her ban makes desolate;
We wrest our love from doubt and fear,
And find it so more sweet, more dear.
