Lewis Morris

At an Almshouse

BENEATH these shadows holy
Age rests, or paces slowly,
And muses, muses always
On that which once has been,
Recalling years long ended,
And vanished visions splendid;
The throb, the flush of old days,
When all the world was green.

When every hour brought pleasure,
And every flower a treasure,
And whispered words were spoken,
And love was everywhere.
The swift brief hour of passion,
And then the old, old fashion,
The childish accents broken
Oh, precious days and fair!

The years of self-denial,
Blissful tho' full of trial,
The young blooms waxing stronger,
The older come to fruit.
The tranquil days of gladness,
The gradual calm and sadness,
When childhood cheers no longer,
And all the house is mute.

Gone, but not wholly taken;
Left, yet not all forsaken.
Again the worn hearts cherish
The memories of home;
Again love-whispers greet them,
Their children run to meet them,
Blest dreams which never perish
Until the end be come.