Classic Poem

Say not, that in old age,
No joys, no pleasures dwell;
That it is but a page,
Which only sorrows tell.

Say not, in age we find
Nought but a wintry shore;
Round which the northern wind,
And raging ocean roar.

Say not, that like the tree
Scorch'd by the light'ning's wing;
That thus old age will be,
A sear'd and barren thing.

Say not, 'tis like the sun
Sinking in western skies;
When storm-clouds have begun
To shut him from our eyes.

O no, 'tis like the shore
Beneath Italian skies;
T'wards which with moon-lit oar
The joyful boatman plies.

O no, 'tis like the tree,
When golden autumn's near;
But with maturity,
It hails its latest year.

It sinks, as sinks the sun
From our admiring eyes;
Whose daily course is run,
Fair as we saw him rise.