Fly Leaves

A bore.

I cannot sing the old songs now!

It is not that I deem them low;
'Tis that I can't remember how

They go.
I could not range the hills till high

Above me stood the summer moon:
And as to dancing, I could fly

As soon.

The sports, to which with boyish glee

I sprang erewhile, attract no more;
Although I am but sixty-three

Or four.
Nay, worse than that, I've seem'd of late

To shrink from happy boyhood--boys
Have grown so noisy, and I hate

A noise.

They fright me, when the beech is green,

By swarming up its stem for eggs:
They drive their horrid hoops between

My legs:-
It's idle to repine, I know;

I'll tell you what I'll do instead:
I'll drink my arrowroot, and go

To bed.

FIRST LOVE.

O my earliest love, who, ere I number'd

Ten sweet summers, made my bosom thrill!
Will a swallow--or a swift, or some bird