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Poem by Charles Stuart Calverley
I know not why my soul is rack'd: Why I ne'er smile as was my wont: I only know that, as a fact, I don't. I used to roam o'er glen and glade Buoyant and blithe as other folk: And not unfrequently I made A joke. A minstrel's fire within me burn'd. I'd sing, as one whose heart must break, Lay upon lay: I nearly learn'd To shake. All day I sang; of love, of fame, Of fights our fathers fought of yore, Until the thing almost became A bore. I cannot sing the old songs now! It is not that I deem then 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.
Charles Stuart Calverley
Charles Stuart Calverley's other poems:
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