Classic Poem

To a young friend lamenting the loss of her teens,

Years are but the tools of youth,
Spades that turn the sod of Truth,
Symbols on a black-board traced, —
Traced in chalk to be effaced, —
Scaffoldings to rear and prop
Work the seasons cannot stop.
For, though marmots hybernate,
Man's live pulses never bate,
Nor lie fallow like the field
Resting from its autumn yield,
So until we reach the brink,
We must either grow or shrink.

Years are tomes the student lone,
Poring over, makes his own;
Or the fruits, Earth, Sun, and Air
Quicken for his destined fare,
Like the ship that bears us o'er
Safely to a distant shore,
Or the ducats that we spend
To attain a journey's end.
So the years that make us men,
Aye, or women, are a gain;
Strength to fight or grace to win,
Prove what friends those years have been.

Maiden, though Time's ruthless shears
From thy life lop twenty years,
For the lost score only grieve
Thou hast twenty less to live.
Those have left a crystalline
Charm upon thy face benign;
Spirit-beauty, virtue, grace,
Time may envy, not deface;
Scythe and glass, his emblems gaunt,
Fail to scratch the adamant