On A Picture Of Children Playing. By Fisher.

I love to look on a scene like this,
    Of wild and careless play,
And persuade myself that I am not old
    And my locks are not yet gray;
For it stirs the blood in old man's heart,
    And makes his pulses fly,
To catch the thrill of a happy voice,
    And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walked the world for fourscore years,
    And they say that I am old;
That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,
    And my years are well nigh told.
It is very true - it is very true -
    I'm old, and 'I bide my time' -
But my heart will leap at a scene like this,
    And I half renew my prime.

Play on! play on! I am with you there,
    In the midst of your merry ring;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
    And the rush of the breathless swing.
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
    And I whoop the smothered call,
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
    And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come,
    And I shall be glad to go;
For the world, at best, is a weary place,
    And my pulse is getting low;
But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail
    In treading its gloomy way;
And it wiles my heart from its dreariness,
    To see the young so gay.