A. Mary F. Robinson-Darmesteter (1857–1944)

WHEN I was young the twilight seemed too long,

How often on the western window seat

I leaned my book against the misty pane

And spelled the last enchanting lines again,

The while my mother hummed an ancient song,

Or sighed a little and said: “The hour is sweet!”

When I, rebellious, clamoured for the light.

But now I love the soft approach of night,

And now with folded hands I sit and dream

While all too fleet the hours of twilight seem;

And thus I know that I am growing old.

O granaries of Age! O manifold

And royal harvest of the common years!

There are in all thy treasure-house no ways

But lead by soft descent and gradual slope

To memories more exquisite than Hope.

Thine is the Iris born of olden tears,

And thrice more happy are the happy days

That live divinely in thy lingering rays.

So autumn roses bear a lovelier flower;

So in the emerald after-sunset hour

The orchard wall and trembling aspen trees

Appear an infinite Hesperides.

Ay, as at dusk we sit with folded hands,

Who knows, who cares in what enchanted lands

We wander while the undying memories throng?

When I was young the twilight seemed too long.