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.