They sing their dearest songs—

   He, she, all of them—yea,

   Treble and tenor and bass,

      And one to play;

   With 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 summer tree,

      With a glimpse of the bay,

   While pet fowl come to the 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.