'Listen! When your hair, like mine, <br />Takes a tint of silver gray; <br />When your eyes, with dimmer shine, <br />Watch life's bubbles float away: <br /> <br />When you, young man, have borne like me <br />The weary weight of sixty-three, <br />Then shall penance sore be paid <br />For those hours so wildly squandered; <br />And the words that now fall dead <br />On your ear, be deeply pondered— <br />Pondered and approved at last: <br />But their virtue will be past! <br /> <br />'Glorious is the prize of Duty, <br />Though she be 'a serious power'; <br />Treacherous all the lures of Beauty, <br />Thorny bud and poisonous flower! <br /> <br />'Mirth is but a mad beguiling <br />Of the golden-gifted time; <br />Love—a demon-meteor, wiling <br />Heedless feet to gulfs of crime. <br /> <br />'Those who follow earthly pleasure, <br /> Heavenly knowledge will not lead; <br />Wisdom hides from them her treasure, <br /> Virtue bids them evil-speed! <br /> <br />'Vainly may their hearts repenting. <br /> Seek for aid in future years; <br />Wisdom, scorned, knows no relenting; <br /> Virtue is not won by fears.' <br /> <br />Thus spake the ice-blooded elder gray; <br />The young man scoffed as he turned away, <br />Turned to the call of a sweet lute's measure, <br />Waked by the lightsome touch of pleasure: <br />Had he ne'er met a gentler teacher, <br />Woe had been wrought by that pitiless preacher.<br /><br />Emily Jane Brontë<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-elder-s-rebuke/
