Sweet lips are those that never turn A cruel word; dear eyes that lead The heart on in a blithe concern; White hand of her we did not wed;
Fair hair or dark, that falls along A form that never shrinks with time; Bright image of a realm of song, Standing beside our years of prime;--
When you shall go, then may we know The heart is dead, the man is old. Life can no other charm bestow When girls we might have loved turn cold!
So ancient to myself I seem, I might have crossed grave Styx's stream A year ago;-- My word, 'tis so;-- And now be wandering with my sires In that rare world we wonder o'er, Half disbelieve, and prize the more!
Yet spruce I am, and still can mix My wits with all the sparkling tricks, A youth and girl At twenty's whirl Play round each other's bosom fires, On this brisk earth I once enjoyed:-- But now I'm otherwise employed!
Am I a thing without a name; A sort of dummy in the game? "Not young, not old:" A world is told Of misery in that lengthened phrase; Yet, gad, although my coat be smooth, My forehead's wrinkled,--that's the truth!
I hardly know which road to go. With youth? Perhaps. With age? Oh no! Well, then, with those Who share my woes, Doomed to mere fashionable ways,-- Fair matrons, cigarettes, and tea, Sighs, mirrors, and society?
Is it a folly still to twirl, And smirk and promenade and querl About the town? I'll put this down: A man becomes downright _blast_ Before he knows that he is either That, or what I am--call it, "Neither."
Oh, for a hint what we shall do, We bucks whose comedy is through! Who'd be sedate? And yet I hate To pose persistently to-day As one just trying flights, you know, When I _did_ try them long ago!
Suppose I hurry up the tide Of age, and bravely drift beside Those hoary dogs Who lie like logs Around the clubs where life is hushed? My blood runs cold! What? Say farewell To this year's new bewildering belle!
Hold, man, the secret broad and huge, With every well-known subterfuge! If bald and gray And thin, still say You're only thirty: don't be crushed; But when your voice shakes o'er a pun, Be off to China:--your day's done!
Hand me my light gloves, James; I'm off for the waltzing world, The kingdom of Strauss and that-- Where is my old crush-hat? _Is_ my hair properly curled? Call in the daytime, James.