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THE WAY TO YOUTH.
Their brows remember no line of care,
And the gold comes back to their brightened hair,
In the realm of deathless Youth.
And the gold comes back to their brightened hair,
In the realm of deathless Youth.
The door is narrow,—the arch is low,
And up to the keystone the violets grow,
And the dead leaves drift, and the snow-falls blow;—
But little they heed or care, who go
In search of Immortal Youth.
And up to the keystone the violets grow,
And the dead leaves drift, and the snow-falls blow;—
But little they heed or care, who go
In search of Immortal Youth.
No sentinel guards it with stern command,
But under its shadow the angels stand
Waiting to clasp the pilgrim's hand,
And lead him into the Morning Land,
The Land of Immortal Youth.
But under its shadow the angels stand
Waiting to clasp the pilgrim's hand,
And lead him into the Morning Land,
The Land of Immortal Youth.
