To an Aged Beauty

Once thou wert young, 'twas very long ago,
Yet some there are to whom thy fixt idea,
Even now, is fresh as sea-born Cytherea.
The waves of time, that ever backward flow,
Behind them leave the quiet tints that glow
On each successive billow. Months, nor years.
Nor maddest mirth, nor dim heart-wasting tears
Attaint the truths that true minds truly know.
Once thou wert young, and still art young to me,
Though fifty summers faded since we met ;
Thy timid glance I cannot cease to see.
Thy bird-like voice to me is piping yet.
If Time turn back to say that thou art old,
I'll swear he lies, and will thy youth uphold.