They sing their dearest songs--
   He, she, all of them-- yea,
   Treble and tenor and bass,
     And one to play;
   With all the candles mooning each face...
     Ah, no; the years O!
How the sick leaves reel down in throngs!

   They clear the creeping moss--
   Elders and juniors--aye,
   Making the pathways neat
     And the garden gay;
   And they build a shady seat...
     Ah, no; the years, the years;
See, the white storm-birds wing across!

   They are blithely breakfasting all--
   Men and maidens--yea,
   Under the summre tree
     With a glimpse of the bay,
   While pet fowl come to knee...
     Ah, no; the years O!
And the rotten rose is ript from the wall.

   They change to a high new house,
   He, she, all of them--aye,
   Clocks and carpets and chairs
     On the lawn all day,
   And brightest things that are theirs...
     Ah, no; the years, the years;
Down their carved names the rain-drop ploughs.

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