When every trace of thought is lost,
And not when you would call him gay,
That his bright presence thrills me most:
His shout may ring upon the hill,
His voice be echoed in the hall,
His merry laugh like music trill,
And I in sadness hear it all,—
For, like the wrinkles on my brow,
I scarcely notice such things now,—
3. But when, amid the earnest game,