Anne Elizabeth Wilson

YOU are growing old, my lithe and gay,

But age with you is different and rare;

Gray—yes, but like the mist that veils an autumn moon

Stretched across the black trees’ gaunt array.

Your light, now opalescent and more gently bright,

Makes beautiful the wintry night.

Why do you long for the bronze hue of youth,

Or the noisiness of its display?

Let us be comforted in this sweet quietness where

There is nothing loved before

But that our having loved so long can make more fair.