Classic Poem

Still by meadow and stream
When I saunter and muse and dream,
A mocking whisper I hear —
" Old Age draweth a-near. "

When fancy would be weaving
Gay hopes for my deceiving,
The Whisperer bids " Remember:
Rake not a dying ember. "

It shall not me dismay
That I've grown old and gray;
Nor tell-tale glass I chide
That will not wrinkles hide:

The visionary gold
That in my heart I hold
Doth far in worth outshine
All metal from the mine.