  Now nights grow cold and colder, And North the wild vane swings, And round each tree and boulder The driving snow-storm sings— Come, make my old heart older, O memory of lost things! Of Hope, when promise sung her Brave songs and I was young, That banquets now on hunger Since all youth's songs are sung; Of Love, who walks with younger Sweethearts the flowers among. Ah, well! while Life holds levee, Death's ceaseless dance goes on. So let the curtains, heavy About my couch, be drawn— The curtains, sad and heavy, Where all shall sleep anon. |
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