With fond remembrance of the things that were—
Renew a thought, a hope that once was dear,
Or hint an adage for a future year,
I scarce shall think these lines were vainly writ,
Nor quite disown my Muse’s random wit.
Time, that has made us boys, and makes as men,
Will never, never bring the past again;
But wingéd memory half the wish supplies,
Which he who bears the scythe and glass denies:
He—the grim sexton of our dying years—