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—
Mеn and maidens—yea
Under thе 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