’Mid fragrant banks, ’neath bland and sunny skies.
Gather ripe fruit, oh death! is ever ringing
From anxious lips, with deep and earnest tone;
Some joy, some hope, is ever fondly springing,
Which clinging fancy deemeth theirs alone.
All, youth and age alike, the reaper spurneth,
The young in triumph point to those before;
And age, from the grim spectre trembling turneth,
And bids him glean from fields all ripened o’er!