When we at last turn into sages And flock to tranquil wisdom’s crest; When passion’s flame no longer rages, And all the yearnings in our breast, The wayward fits, the final surges, Have all become mere comic urges, And pain has made us humble men— We sometimes like to listen then As others tell of passions swelling; They stir our hearts and fan the flame. Just so a soldier, old and lame, Forgotten in his wretched dwelling, Will strain to hear with bated breath The youngbloods’ yarns of courting death.
