There are who deem life's afternoon,
At best a dark and dreary time,
Too late to yield a second bloom,
Too chill to keep the flowers of prime;
That day by day, and step by step,
While friends of youth, beside us fall,
The weary heart, grown dull with age
Responds no more to friendship's call.
Believe them not, my gentle girl,
Those libellers of love and truth,
Nor let the clouds of corning years,
O'ercast the spring-time of thy youth.
The light of sense may all go out,
And passion's wild-fire quite grow cold,
But time chills not the warmth of truth,
The loving heart grows never old.