Wendell Phillips Garrison (1840–1907)

AGE cannot wither her whom not gray hairs

Nor furrowed cheeks have made the thrall of Time;

For Spring lies hidden under Winter’s rime,

And violets know the victory is theirs.

Even so the corn of Egypt, unawares,

Proud Nilus shelters with engulfing slime;

So Etna’s hardening crust a more sublime

Volley of pent-up fires at last prepares.

O face yet fair, if paler, and serene

With sense of duty done without complaint!

O venerable crown!—a living green,

Strength to the weak, and courage to the faint—

Thy bleaching locks, thy wrinkles, have but been

Fresh beads upon the rosary of a saint.