  When we grow old, and time looks like a thief, That was the spendthrift of our dearest days; When color mingles merged in silvered grays; When joys are ever memoried to be brief; When beauty fades; when hope is under feof; When all our moods are mantled in a haze; When sprightly pleasure for a penance plays The part of prudence in the weeds of grief; It will suffice if unto memory Visit the voices and the eager grace Of days that promised never to forget; If they will flow like rumors of the sea, Heard under honied lindens in the place, Where start the marguerite and the mignonette.
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