strem

Updated: May 15, 2025

Now I am old and grey, My bones are rack'd with pain, And time speeds fast away But why should I complain? There are joys in life's young morn That dwell not with the old. Like the flowers the wind hath torn, From the strem, all bleak and cold. The weary heart may mourn O'er the wither'd hopes of youth, But the flowers so rudely shorn Still leave the seeds of truth.

Susanna Moodie - Roughing It in the Bush