Danced on the skirt of autumn skies!
We stand and gaze; and wonder-rapt,
Think of the changing power of years,
As on our brow its trace has crept,
And from our eyes exacted tears.
There is glad childhood, rob’d in smiles,
And beauteous as a dew-gem’d flower,
Whose silver laugh and boyish wiles,
Usurp the mother many an hour.
There is the first half-spoken word,