The marching years go by
And brush your garment’s hem.
The bandits by and by
Will bid you go with them.

Trust not that caravan!
Old vagabonds are they;
They’ll rob you if they can,
And make believe it’s play.

Make the old robbers give
Of all the spoils they bear,-
Their truth, to help you live,-
Their joy, to keep you fair.

Ask not for gauds nor gold,
Nor fame that falsely rings;
The foolish world grows old
Caring for all these things.

Make all your sweet demands
For happiness alone,
And the years will fill your hands
With treasures rarely known.
– To A Young Lady On Her Birthday by William Bliss Carman