to snow-white hairs the same, and give to pulses winter-cool’d the same;) As here in careless trill, I and my recitatives, with faith and love, Wafting to other work, to unknown songs, conditions, On, on, ye jocund twain! continue on the same!
My 71st Year
After surmounting three-score and ten, With all their chances, changes, losses, sorrows, My parents’ deaths, the vagaries of my life, the many tearing passions of me, the war of ’63 and ’4, As some old broken soldier, after a long, hot, wearying march, or haply after battle, To-day at twilight, hobbling, answering company roll-call, Here, with vital voice, Reporting yet, saluting yet the Officer over all.
Apparitions
A vague mist hanging ’round half the pages: (Sometimes how strange and clear to the soul, That all these solid things are indeed but