To Clara Morris.

In days gone by, the poets wrote
Sweet verses to the ladies fair;
Described the nightingale's clear note,
Or penned an Ode to Daphne's hair.
To dare all for a woman's smile
Or breathe one's heart out in a rose--
Such trifles now are out of style,
The scented manuscript must close.
Yet Villon wrote his roundelays,
And that sweet singer Horace;
But I will sing of other days
In praise of Clara Morris.
Youth is but the joy of life,
Not the eternal moping;
We get no happiness from strife
Nor yet by blindly groping.
All the world's a stage you know
The men and women actors;
A little joy, a little woe--
These are but human factors.
The mellow days still come and go,
The earth is full of beauty;
If we would only think it so,
Life is not all a duty.
And you are young in heart not years,
Is this not true because
You mingle happiness with tears
And do not look for flaws?
Your silver hair is but the snow
That drifts above the roses,
And though the years may come and go
They can but scatter posies.