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But lately, one rough day, this Flower I pass'd,And recognized it, though an alter'd Form,Now standing forth an offering to the Blast,And buffetted at will by Rain and Storm.
I stopp'd, and said with inly muttered voice,"It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold:This neither is it's courage nor it's choice,But it's necessity in being old.
The sunshine may not bless it, nor the dew;It cannot help itself in it's decay;Stiff in it's members, wither'd, changed of hue."And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was grey.
To be a Prodigal's Favorite—then, worse truth,A Miser's Pensioner—behold our lot!O Man! that from thy fair and shining youthAge might but take the things Youth needed not!
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