If I were not so young, the vistaed years
Had not for me such pale, perspective dread,
For I could turn, beneath this veil of tears,
To swift reunion with my longed-for Dead—
But Youth is mine, and all its baffled fires
Burn fiercely on within my ravaged breast,
And all its ardent, innocent desires
Defiant still their heritage attest.
My blurred, blank gaze that once was wont to shine
With prescient glow in what fair Time should bring,
Now scans Life's far and faint horizon line
Knowing that Death alone shall hold no sting—
My dumb despair, when it can find a tongue,
May only falter, “Were I not so young!”