Years grow and gather - each a gem
Lustrous with laughter and with
tears,
And cunning Time a crown of years
Contrives for her who weareth them.
No chance can snatch this diadem,
It trembles not with hopes or fears,
It shines before the rose appears,
And when the leaves forsake her stem.
Time sets his jewels one by one.
Then wherefore mourn the wreaths
that lie
In attic chambers
of the past?
They withered ere the day was done.
This coronal will never die,
Nor shall you
lose it at the last.