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.