Song: To a Welsh Air, "Ar Hyd y Nos"

Old I am, yet not past feeling.
Maiden, think not so ;
Time, the thief, for ever stealing

Moments as they go.
Still the moment dear has left me.
Moment that of self bereft me,
Moment that did wound with healing.
Cause and cure of woe.
Hope, and yet not hope, it gave me —

Oh ! that lovely smile —
Hope, alas ! too brief to save me,

Yet 'twas sweet the while.
Bright as joy, and soft as pity.
Little like thyself, and pretty.
Nought beside can now enslave me,
Nothing else beguile.
Old I am and daily older,

Not in days alone,
Yet, methinks, that I am bolder

Since that grey I'm grown ;
Young. I had not dared address thee,
Old, I may presume to bless thee ;
Hope is dead, and fancies moulder,
All but Love is flown.
Smile again. The look that gazes.

Asks not, wants not, no ;
Laugh at me and all my praises,

Laugh at all my woe.
But when I have done with sighing.
In the quiet churchyard lying,
Softly smile upon the daisies
On my grave that grow.