Elegy

The mirth, now dead, that once was madly bubbling,
Like fumes of last night's cups, is vaguely troubling;
Not so the griefs that to those years belong:
Like wine, I find, with age they grow more strong.
My path is bleak — before me stretch my morrows:
A tossing sea, foreboding toil and sorrows.
And yet I do not wish to die, be sure;
I want to live — think, suffer, and endure;
And I shall know some savor of elation
Amidst the cares, the woe, and the vexation:
At times I shall be drunk on music still,
Or at a moving tale my eyes will fill,
And, as sad dusk folds down about my story,
Love's farewell smile may shed a parting glory.