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Updated: May 7, 2025
Tell me not of it, friend when the young weep, Their tears are luke-warm brine; from your old eyes Sorrow falls down like hail-drops of the North, Chilling the furrows of our withered cheeks, Cold as our hopes, and hardened as our feeling Theirs, as they fall, sink sightless ours recoil, Heap the fair plain, and bleaken all before us. Old Play.
Tell me not of it, friend when the young weep, Their tears are luke-warm brine; from your old eyes Sorrow falls down like hail-drops of the North, Chilling the furrows of our withered cheeks, Cold as our hopes, and hardened as our feeling Theirs, as they fall, sink sightless ours recoil, Heap the fair plain, and bleaken all before us. Old Play.
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