This is Palm Sunday: mindful of the day,
I bring palm branches, found upon my way:
But these will wither; thine shall never die,—
The sacred palms thou bearest to the sky!
Dear little saint, though but a child in years,
Older in wisdom than my gray...

Not all die early, dying young —

Maturity of Fate

Is consummated equally

In Ages, or a Night —


A Hoary Boy, I've known to drop

Whole statured — by the side

Of Junior of Fourscore — 'twas Act
...

Poet: