Poem for January 22, 2027

Am I despised, because you say;

And I dare swear, that I am gray?

Know, Lady, you have but your day!

And time will come when you shall wear

Such frost and snow upon your hair;

And when, though long, it comes to pass,

You question with your looking-glass,

And in that sincere crystal seek

But find no rose-bud in your cheek,

Nor any bed to give the shew

Where such a rare carnation grew:-

Ah! then too late, close in your chamber keeping,

It will be told

That you are old,--

By those true tears you're weeping.