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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.
Added: 25 Feb 2002 | Last Read: 25 Apr 2018 2:26 PM | Viewed: 8929 times
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Thomas Hardy
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