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Poem	WE are desert leagues apart; Time is misty ages now Since the warmth of heart to heart Chased the shadows from my brow. Oh, I am so old, meseems I am next of kin to Time, The historian of her dreams From the long-forgotten prime. You have come a path of flowers. What a way was mine to roam! Many a fallen empire’s towers, Many a ruined heart my home. 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! 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; Do not lay thy rapture down.
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