One day, in spring, I took a walk
And spied, within a field of green,
A slender dandelion stock,
Upon whose top a flower was seen.
Soon after, passing by the place,
I noticed that the flower of gold,
Whose stiffened stalk had lost it’s grace,
Was turning gray and growing old.
To-day, upon the self same ground,
I see a stalk undecked and spare;
The flower that once was golden-crowned,
Has lost it’s gray—it’s head is bare.
How like a child is this gay flower,
With golden hair and graceful mien,
Which comes to brighten many an hour
And add a charm to dullest scene!
But soon the golden turns to gray
And middle life comes on apace;
The gray then hurries on its way,
And old age comes to take it’s place.