| ||WILLIAM HASKELL SIMPSON.|| 117|
This is the quiet end of all
The old-time strife and hurting fall__
Love holds me in its pleasing thrall.
Yet not the close! My precious boy,
In unrestrained and childish joy,
Is playing with some curious toy:
For him my old ambition burns,
For him my heart in silence yearns,
As one by one life's ways he learns.
He, too, in part these paths will tread:
May he press on, sure-stepped, ahead,
To where the victor's cheeks blush red!
SO MUCH to do ere hands are cold;
So far to fare, ere limbs grow old;
So much to say, if all is told__
That we lose sight of better things;
Forget, in earthward wanderings,
To use love's buoyant sweeping wings.
And I__yes, I sometimes forget
To lure away your care and fret,
And kiss the cheeks by teardrops wet.