Anna (Matlack) Richards (1835–1900)

I, WHO am young, let me not crave too much

The burden of content, not too much strain

The shining mirage of Desire to touch:

Fruition’s rest is full of nameless pain.

And yet, O End! O Rest! if there be such

In all the world,—come in the mighty reign

Of autumn on this silent inland plain,

Come to a spirit toiling over much.

I, who am old, let not my heart annul,

By futile hope, the gain of suffering years,

Nor make the fine gold of their wisdom dull

With youth’s sweet passion of unfruitful tears:

And yet, in this fair spring, with Nature’s tongue,

I cry aloud,—Would God I too were young!