Classic Poem

No longer now do perfumed swains and merry wanton youths
Come flocking, loudly knocking at your gate;
No longer do they rob your rest, or mar the sleep that soothes,
With calling,—bawling love-songs until late.

No longer need you bar them out, nor is your window-pane
Ever shaken, now forsaken here you lie.
Nevermore will lute strings woo you, nor your lover's voice complain,
“'Tis a sin, dear, let me in, dear, or I die!”

The little door that used to swing so gaily in and out,
Creaks on hinges that show tinges of decay.
For you are old, my Lydia, you are old and rather stout;
Not the sort to court or sport with those who play.

Oh now you will bewail the daring insolence of rakes,
While you dally in an alley with the crones;
And the Thracian wind goes howling down the avenues and shakes
Your old shutters, as it utters mocking moans.

For youth will always call to youth and greet love with a will—
And Winter, though you tint her like the Spring,
Beneath the artificial glow she will be Winter still—
And who would hold so cold and old a thing!