Backward they look’d on life’s rich banquet-day,
But all beyond was cold.
Every sweet wood-note then,
And through the plane-trees every sunbeam’s glow,
And each glad murmur from the homes of men,
Made it more hard to go.
But we, when life grows dim,
When its last melodies float o’er our way,
Its changeful hues before us faintly swim,
Its flitting lights decay;—