Post-Meridian

Afternoon when in thy glass thou studiest thy face, Not long, nor yet not seldom, half repelled And half attracted; when thou hast beheld Of Time’s slow ravages the crumbling trace, (Deciphered now with many an interspace The characters erewhile that Beauty spelled), And in thy throat a choking fear hath swelled Of Love, grown cold, eluding thy embrace: Couldst thou but read my gaze of tenderness— Affection fused with pity—precious tears Would bring relief to thy unjust distress; Thy visage, even as it to me appears, Would seem to thee transfigured; thou wouldst bless Me, who am also, Dearest! scarred with years. EVENING AGE cannot wither her whom not gray hairs Nor furrowed cheeks have made the thrall of Time; For Spring lies hidden under Winter’s rime, And violets know the victory is theirs. Even so the corn of Egypt, unawares, Proud Nilus shelters with engulfing slime; So Etna’s hardening crust a more sublime Volley of pent-up fires at last prepares. O face yet fair, if paler, and serene With sense of duty done without complaint! O venerable crown!—a living green, Strength to the weak, and courage to the faint— Thy bleaching locks, thy wrinkles, have but been Fresh beads upon the rosary of a saint!