As bugles a young hunter, we were borne
Along the casual current of each day
Apart from those who trod the Roman Way.
III
And in the main of living we were glad
That we had left the highway and had grown
To wear our tolerance as a silken gown
And smile at those who went in armour clad;
And old age came upon us, grey and sad,
Stealthy and slow, and passed and passed again