Though I Be Seventy

Though I be seventy, too old, some say,
To love as young as young man may;
And though you’re nearly very old as me,
And far, some say, from waves of passion’s sea,
Explain me this: my soaring poetry,
And, burning true, whence comes this light in you?
The youngsters of these days to me seem old;
Screeches their music, screaming, song.
Their tattooed bodies ugly, false, brute cold;
Their speech, which should be fair, is in them drear,
And much seems they have lived them overlong,
Though in real knowledge mastered not a year.
Yea, I be seventy, too young, may be,
To love a lovely tender one like thee!

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