Now I grow old, and flowers are weeds,
I think of days when weeds were flowers;
When Jenny lived across the way,
And shared with me her childhood hours.
Her little teeth did seem so sharp,
So bright and bold, when they were shown,
You'd think if passion stirred her she
Could bite and hurt a man of stone.
Her curls, like golden snakes, would lie
Upon each shoulder's front, as though
To guard her face on either side -
They raised themselves when Winds did blow.
How sly they were! I could not see,
Nor she feel them begin to climb
Across her lips, till there they were,
To be forced back time after time.
If I could see an Elm in May
Turn all his dark leaves into pearls,
And shake them in the light of noon -
That sight had not shamed Jenny's curls.
And, like the hay, I swear her hair
Was getting golder every day;
Yes, golder when 'twas harvested,
Under a bonnet stacked away.
Ah, Jenny's gone, I know not where;
Her face I cannot hope to see;
And every time I think of her
The world seems one big grave to me.