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Charles Heavysege (Чарльз Хевиседж)

* * *

Childhood alone is glad.  With it time flees
In constant mimes and bright festivities.
It, like the ever-restless butterfly,
Or seeks or settles on some flower of joy.
Youth chases pleasure, but oft starteth pain;
And love, youth's birthright, oft is love in vain;
While manhood follows wealth, or woos ambition,
That are but courted cares; and, with transition
Insensible, he enters upon age;
Thence gilding like a spectre from life's stage,
E'en through the door of dotage.  So he passes
To second childhood; but, as quickening gases,
Being fled, leave zestless a once cheering draught,
We grow not merry though the dotard laughed.

Charles Heavysege's other poems:
  1. The Dead
  2. The Coming of Morn
  3. Secrets Of The Heart
  4. The Fallen Angels
  5. The Stream

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