Troops of gray ghosts from lands forlorn
Keep tryst about my sleepless bed.
I hear their cold, thin voices say:
"Your youth is dying; by-and-by
All that makes up your life to-day,
Withered by age, will shrink and die!"
Will it be so? Will age slay all
The dreams of love and hope and faith—
Put out the sun beyond recall,
And lap us in a living death?