I know not these who wear the hoary crown
And find a pathos in the merry lays.
Here Memory, with old wisdom on her lips,
A finger points at each familiar name—
Some writ on water, stone or stranded ships,
Some in the music of the trump of fame.
Here oft, I think, beloved voices call
Behind a weathered door 'neath ancient trees.
I hear sad echoes in the empty hall,
The wide world's lyric in the harping breeze.