Love and Time

Across the gardens of Life they go, A strange, ill-mated pair; By paths where naught but blossoms blow, But paths neglected where gaunt weeds grow, But hand in hand, through joy, through care, Across the gardens of Life they go. The one is old, and grim, and gray: His eyes stare off, like one in dreams; Across his breast his white locks stray; The sands in his glass fall day by day; Over his shoulder his scythe-blade gleams,— And he is old, and grim, and gray. And one is young, and bright, and fair: The golden curls about his head Shine as a halo; his red lips dare The birds in song; he knows no care, Joy in his heart is never dead,— He lives to love and he is fair. Hoar-headed Time was never young, And Love on earth cannot grow old; And yet, since first to that hand he clung— Since first his tender song he sung, Since first his love-tale had he told, And to a dart his bow had strung— Together, through ways of joy, of woe, Though one is old and one is fair, By Paths where naught but blossoms blow, By paths neglected where gaunt weeds grow, Together, a strange, ill-mated pair, Across the gardens of Life they go.