Ah, blame him not because he’s gay! That he should smile, and jest, and play But shows how lightly he can bear, How well forget that load which, where Thought is, is with it, and howe’er Dissembled, or indeed forgot, Still is a load, and ceases not. This aged earth that each new spring Comes forth so young, so ravishing In summer robes for all to see, Of flower, and leaf, and bloomy tree, For all her scarlet, gold, and green, Fails not to keep within unseen That inner purpose and that force Which on the untiring orbit’s course Around the sun, amidst the spheres Still bears her thro’ the eternal years. Ah, blame the flowers and fruits of May, And then blame him because he’s gay. Ah, blame him not, for _not_ being gay, Because an hundred times a day He doth not currently repay Sweet words with ready words as sweet, And for each smile a smile repeat. To mute submissiveness confined, Blame not, if once or twice the mind Its pent-up indignation wreak In scowling brow and flushing cheek, And smiles curled back as soon as born, To dire significance of scorn. Nor blame if once, and once again He wring the hearts of milder men, If slights, the worse if undesigned, Should seem unbrotherly, unkind; For though tree wave, and blossom blow Above, earth hides a fire below; Her seas the starry laws obey, And she from her own ordered way Swerves not, because it dims the day Or changes verdure to decay. Ah, blame the great world on its way, And then blame him for not being gay. _YOUTH AND AGE._ Dance on, dance on, we see, we see Youth goes, alack, and with it glee, A boy the old man ne’er can be; Maternal thirty scarce can find The sweet sixteen long left behind; Old folks must toil, and scrape, and strain, That boys and girls may once again Be that for them they cannot be, But which it gives them joy to see, Youth goes and glee; but not in vain, Young folks, if only you remain. Dance on, dance on, ’tis joy to see; The dry red leaves on winter’s tree, Can feel the new sap rising free. On, on, young folks; so you survive, The dead themselves are still alive; The blood in dull parental veins Long numbed, a tingling life regains. Deep down in earth, the tough old root Is conscious still of flower and fruit. Spring goes and glee but were not vain: In you, young folks, they come again. Dance on, dance on, we see, we feel; Wind, wind your waltzes, wind and wheel, Our senses too with music reel; Nor let your pairs neglect to fill The old ancestral scorned quadrille. Let hand the hand uplifted seek, And pleasure fly from cheek to cheek; Love too; but gently, nor astray, And yet, deluder, yet in play. Dance on; youth goes: but all’s not vain, Young folks, if only you remain.