The Gray Hair

The Gray Hair

Come let me pluck that silver hair

Which 'mid thy curling locks I see;

The withering type of time or care

Hath nothing, sure, to do with thee!

Years have not yet impaired the grace

That charmed me once, that chains me now!

And Envy's self, Love, cannot trace

One wrinkle on thy placid brow!

Thy features have not lost the bloom

That brightened them when first we met;

No - rays of softest light illume

The unambitious beauty yet!

And if the passing clouds of Care

Have cast their shadows o'er thy face,

They have but left, triumphant there

A holier charm - more witching grace!

And if thy voice hath sunk a tine,

And sounds more sadly than of yore,

It has a sweetness all its own,

Methinks I never marked before.

Thus, young and fair, and happy too -

If bliss indeed may here be won

In spite of all that care can do;

In spite of all that time has done.

Is yon white hair a boon of love,

To thee in mildest mercy given?

A sign, a token from above,

To lead thy thoughts from earth to heaven?

To speak to thee of life's decay;

Of beauty hastening to the tomb;

Of hopes that cannot fade away;

Of joys that never lose their bloom?

Or springs the line of timeless snow

With those dark, glossy locks entwined,

'Mid youth's and beauty's morning glow,

To emblem thy maturer mind.

It does - it does; - then let it stay;

Even Wisdom's self were welcome now;

Who'd wish her sober tints away,

When thus they beam from beauty's brow?

Unattributed

1:22, p. 88

1827.08.10