Albert O. Barton

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I Must Grow Old

I must grow old, my temple's incomplete, From many lands and climes lie stones unplaced, Column and cornice and jeweled panel meet, — To build I must make haste.

No hand but mine can rear its fluted front, No voice but mine can sing its dome to form; Shall they forego their joyous labor wont, While yet their ardor's warm?

Not ours to plan, rebuild and raze again, Till night surprises us at tasks undone, Nor leave uncrowned the walls that long have lain Bare to the rain and sun.

In the great plan each has his task assigned, Each must round out the dream to him revealed; Fitting each block or gem his hand may find, Nor rove too long afield.

Age has its greatening calls no less than youth, Else were life futile, — yes, and how it stirs! To fix, enjoy and hold each wondrous truth, Or youth's exemplar errs.

I must grow old; my temple waiting lies, To house the gleanings of life's varied quest; Its capstone set, in ordered niche each prize, And then, mayhap, to rest.

Old Families Are Like Old Flowers

Old families are like old flowers; when we return, After long years to some deserted home, Of crumbling wall and staring front, and yearn For old familiars that now elsewhere roam.

Though flapping board and tangled path foretell That nature back into her bosom green, Will take all these in her unhasting spell, One pledge we find to stay the changing scene.

For bravely still where rose the garden bound, The lusty hollyhock proclaims its youth; Tansy and morning glory hold their ground, And the paled rose surrenders not its truth.

These shall remain though all else goes its way, Less than a Mayan mystery to become, And shall retrieve some sweet forgotten day, Though of its glory but the final sum.

So mid old towns decaying, quaint and gray, Which once we knew but which know us no more, Some lone name clings, scent of an earlier day, Of some home circle and bright hearth of yore.

Gone now that hearth, that home perchance, yet still, Abides this token of once happier hours, Some human bloom its memories to distill; Proving old families are like old flowers.

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