Or the busy tramp of the passer-by,
Or the toll of the bell on the heavy air—
Good friends, let it be there!
I am old, my friends—I am very old—
Fourscore and five—and bitter cold
Were that air on the hill-side far away;
Eighty full years, content, I trow,
Have I lived in the home where ye see me now,
And trod those dark streets day by day,
Till my soul doth love them; I love them all,