One after one, as dwindling hours,
Youth’s glowing hopes have dropped away,
And soon may barely leave the gleam
That coldly scores a winter’s day.
I am not young, I am not old;
The flush of morn, the sunset calm,
Paling, and deepening, each to each,
Meet midway with a solemn charm.
One side I see the summer fields,
Not yet disrobed of all their green;