Mineral Point Tribune

Unfold the young rose and the lily,
On the soft air the fragrant mist floats,
O the love in the wee rollin's notes.
The zephyrs breathe on me
But gives unto mine again
What care I? The face of all Nature
its imprint of years, its storm-riven
To live with the year in its fullness
travail
To live when its story is told
But alas: I am old: I am old
With spring comes the rose and the lily.
On the hair that was once like gold.
The white snow of winter lies away
The cheek that was smooth and rounded
This eye that is dim and shrunken
seared like the forest world
And the children laugh loudly to see me
Was once like sky
live with the year in its fullness
With tottering steps
when story told
with spring comes the rose and the lily.
But alas I am old I am old:
My lute with tense strings riven,
is the flare at night of a candle.
Save one quivering note
Like the wing crushed mote
Like dead gray ashes buried
Over a drying coal,
To live with the year in its fullness!
That canst not reach its goal.
is this poor puny body
it alas! I am old! I am old
With spring comes the rose and the lily,
when story
in the world, but not of it-a stranger,
gaze with fast dimming eve
on the antics of vain-glorious mimes
of tricks that are long gone by.
And I feel for the din of the battle,
long for smoke and fray
o God! Give me youth with all nature
to live with the year in its fullness
else give me death I pray
live when story told
With spring comes the rose and the lily.
But alas! I am old! I am old.