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Poem
February 9, 1827
The Litchfield County Post
Litchfield, Litchfield County, Connecticut
What is this article about?
A lyrical poem addressing a beloved woman upon noticing a single grey hair among her curls, reflecting on how time and care have not diminished her beauty but added a holier charm and wisdom, urging thoughts toward eternal joys.
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OCR Quality
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Full Text
THE GREY HAIR.
Come, let me pluck that silver hair
Which mid thy clust'ring curls I see:
The withering type of Time or Care
Hath nothing, sure, to do with thee!
Years have not yet impaired the grace
That charmed me once, that chains me now;
And Envy's self, love, cannot trace
One wrinkle on thy placid brow!
Thy features have not lost the bloom
That brighten'd them when first we met:
No rays of softest light illume
The unambitious beauty yet!
And if the passing clouds of Care
Have cast their shadows o'er thy face,
They have but left, triumphant, there
A holier charm—more witching grace.
And if thy voice hath sunk a tone,
And sounds more sweetly than of yore,
It has a sweetness, all its own,
Methinks I never marked before!
Thus, young and fair, and happy too—
If bliss indeed may here be won—
In spite of all that care can do;
In spite of all that Time hath done;
Is yon white hair a boon of love,
To thee in mildest mercy given?
A sign, a token from above,
To lead thy thoughts from earth to heaven?
To speak to thee of life's decay;
Of beauty hastening to the tomb;
Of hopes that cannot fade away;
Of joys that never lose their bloom?
Or springs the line of timeless snow
With those dark, glossy locks entwined,
'Mid Youth's and Beauty's morning glow,
To emblem thy maturer mind—
It does—it does;—then let it stay;
Even Wisdom's self were welcome now:
Who'd wish her soberer tints away,
When thus they beam from Beauty's brow?
Come, let me pluck that silver hair
Which mid thy clust'ring curls I see:
The withering type of Time or Care
Hath nothing, sure, to do with thee!
Years have not yet impaired the grace
That charmed me once, that chains me now;
And Envy's self, love, cannot trace
One wrinkle on thy placid brow!
Thy features have not lost the bloom
That brighten'd them when first we met:
No rays of softest light illume
The unambitious beauty yet!
And if the passing clouds of Care
Have cast their shadows o'er thy face,
They have but left, triumphant, there
A holier charm—more witching grace.
And if thy voice hath sunk a tone,
And sounds more sweetly than of yore,
It has a sweetness, all its own,
Methinks I never marked before!
Thus, young and fair, and happy too—
If bliss indeed may here be won—
In spite of all that care can do;
In spite of all that Time hath done;
Is yon white hair a boon of love,
To thee in mildest mercy given?
A sign, a token from above,
To lead thy thoughts from earth to heaven?
To speak to thee of life's decay;
Of beauty hastening to the tomb;
Of hopes that cannot fade away;
Of joys that never lose their bloom?
Or springs the line of timeless snow
With those dark, glossy locks entwined,
'Mid Youth's and Beauty's morning glow,
To emblem thy maturer mind—
It does—it does;—then let it stay;
Even Wisdom's self were welcome now:
Who'd wish her soberer tints away,
When thus they beam from Beauty's brow?
What sub-type of article is it?
Ode
What themes does it cover?
Love Courtship
Death Mourning
Moral Virtue
What keywords are associated?
Grey Hair
Aging Beauty
Time Decay
Enduring Love
Wisdom Charm
Poem Details
Title
The Grey Hair.
Subject
On A Beloved's Grey Hair
Form / Style
Rhymed Quatrains
Key Lines
Come, Let Me Pluck That Silver Hair
Which Mid Thy Clust'ring Curls I See:
The Withering Type Of Time Or Care
Hath Nothing, Sure, To Do With Thee!
It Does—It Does;—Then Let It Stay;
Even Wisdom's Self Were Welcome Now:
Who'd Wish Her Soberer Tints Away,
When Thus They Beam From Beauty's Brow?