In middle age, before the hearth,

Deeply absorbed in counting o’er

Successes won, he hardly heard

The fall of footsteps on the floor.

Behind his chair a fair Youth stood,

In phantom shape, and listening heard:

“I’m happier now than when a boy!”—

The visitant neither turned nor stirred.

Tenderly sad, Lost Youth mused low,

“He’s gained at length Fortune’s bequest,—

When I slipped slowly from his grasp,

He cried, ‘My Boyhood days are best!’

But, no—though learned ’mid falling tears,—

One’s best days come with Manhood’s years!”