Old lady, put your glasses on,
With polished lenses, mounting golden,
And once again look slowly through
The album olden.
How the old portraits take you back
To friends who once would 'round you gather—
All scattered now, like frosted leaves
In blustering weather.
Why, who is this, the bright coquette?
Her eyes with Love's bright arrows laden—
"Poor Nell, she's living single yet,
An ancient maiden."
And this, the fragile poetess?
Whose high soul-yearnings nought can smother—
"She's stouter far than I am now,
A kind grandmother."
Who is this girl with flowing curls,
Who on the golden future muses?
"What splendid hair she had!—and now
A 'front' she uses."
And this? "Why, if it's not my own;
And did I really e'er resemble
That bright young creature? Take the book—
My old hands tremble.
"It seems that only yesterday
We all were young; ah, how time passes!"
Old lady, put the album down,
And wipe your glasses.