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BARREN AGE and withered World! Oh! the dying leaves, Like a drizzling rain, Falling round the roof— Pattering on the pane! Frosty Age and cold, cold World! Ghosts of other days, Trooping past the faded fire, Flit before the gaze. Now the wind goes soughing wild O’er the whistling Earth; And we front a feeble flame, Sitting round the hearth! Sitting by the fire, Watching in its glow, Ghosts of other days Trooping to and fro. . . . . .Sitting by the fire, Cheerful in its glow; Twenty summers back— Twenty years ago! If the days were days of toil Wherefore should we mourn; There were shadows near the shine, Flowers with the thorn? And we still can recollect Evenings spent in mirth— Fragments of a broken life, Sitting round the hearth: Sitting by the fire, Cheerful in its glow, Twenty summers back— Twenty years ago.
Beauty stooped to bless us once,
Gleesome children were we not? . . . . .Oh, the dying leaves, Like a drizzling rain, Falling round the roof— Pattering on the pane! Frosty Age and cold, cold World! Ghosts of other days, Trooping past the faded fire, Flit before the gaze. Now the wind goes soughing wild O’er the whistling Earth; And we front a feeble flame, Sitting round the hearth: Sitting by the fire, Watching, in its glow, Ghosts of other days Trooping to and fro! |