Of the shrill clarion gives your heart no more
A fiery wakening,—if at last you pine
For the glad voices and the bounding steps
Once through your home re-echoing, and the clasp
Of twining arms, and all the joyous light
Of eyes that laugh’d with youth, and made your board
A place of sunshine,—when those days are come,
Then, in your utter desolation, turn
To the cold world—the smiling, faithless world,
Which hath swept past you long—and bid it quench