No, there is no comfort, none;

All the dewy tender breath

Idly falls when life is done

On the starless brow of death.

Though the dream of love may tire,

In the ages long agone

There were ruby hearts of fire—

Ah, the daughters of the dawn!

[25]

Though I am so feeble now,

I remember when our pride

Could not to the Mighty bow;

We would sweep His stars aside.

Mix thy youth with thoughts like those—

It were but to wither thee,

But to graft the youthful rose

On the old and flowerless tree.

Age is no more near than youth

To the sceptre and the crown.

Vain the wisdom, vain the truth;

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