Old Grandpere gat in the corner, <br />With his grandchild on his knee, <br />Looking up at his wrinkled visage, <br />For his winters were ninety-three. <br /> <br />Fair Eleanor's locks were flaxen, <br />The old man's once were gray, <br />But now, they were white as the snow-drift <br />That lay on the bleak highway. <br /> <br />Her summers rolled on as golden <br />As waves over sunny seas; <br />But Grandpere could perceive no summers, <br />The winters alone were his. <br /> <br />He folded his arms around her, <br />Like Winter embracing Spring; <br />And the angels looked down from heaven, <br />And smiled on their slumbering. <br /> <br />But soon the angelic faces <br />Were filled with seraphic light, <br />As they gazed on a beauteous spirit <br />Passing up through the frosty night: <br /> <br />Till it stood serene before them, <br />A youth most divinely fair; <br />And they saw that the new-born angel <br />Was the spirit of old Grandpere.<br /><br />Charles Sangster<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/grandpere/
