<h2> The Voice of Age </h2>
<p>She'd look upon us, if she could,<br/>
As hard as Rhadamanthus would;<br/>
Yet one may see,—who sees her face,<br/>
Her crown of silver and of lace,<br/>
Her mystical serene address<br/>
Of age alloyed with loveliness,—<br/>
That she would not annihilate<br/>
The frailest of things animate.<br/>
<br/>
She has opinions of our ways,<br/>
And if we're not all mad, she says,—<br/>
If our ways are not wholly worse<br/>
Than others, for not being hers,—<br/>
There might somehow be found a few<br/>
Less insane things for us to do,<br/>
And we might have a little heed<br/>
Of what Belshazzar couldn't read.<br/>
<br/>
She feels, with all our furniture,<br/>
Room yet for something more secure<br/>
Than our self-kindled aureoles<br/>
To guide our poor forgotten souls;<br/>
But when we have explained that grace<br/>
Dwells now in doing for the race,<br/>
She nods—as if she were relieved;<br/>
Almost as if she were deceived.<br/>
<br/>
She frowns at much of what she hears,<br/>
And shakes her head, and has her fears;<br/>
Though none may know, by any chance,<br/>
What rose-leaf ashes of romance<br/>
Are faintly stirred by later days<br/>
That would be well enough, she says,<br/>
If only people were more wise,<br/>
And grown-up children used their eyes.<br/></p>
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