The Boats of the Glen Carrig: Dedication
People may say thou art no longer young And yet, to me, thy youth was yesterday, A yesterday that seems Still mingled with my dreams. Ah! how the years have o'er thee flung Their soft mantilla, grey. And e'en to them thou art not over old; How could'st thou be! Thy hair Hast scarcely lost its deep old glorious dark: Thy face is scarcely lined. No mark Destroys its calm serenity. Like gold Of evening light, when winds scarce stir, The soul-light of thy face is pure as prayer.