Deal gently with her, Time: these many years
Of life have brought more smiles with them than tears.
Lay not thy hand too harshly on her now,
But trace decline so slowly on her brow
That (like a sunset of the Northern clime,
Where twilight lingers in the summer-time,
And fades at last into the silent night,
Ere one may note the passing of the light)
So may she pass-since 'tis our common lot
As one who, resting, sleeps and knows it not.
John Allen Wyeth.