When hope, and growth, and joy are o’er,
And all our harvesting is done,—
When, stricken, like our mortal Life,
Darkened and chill, the Year lays down
The summer beauty that she wore,
Her summer stars of Harp and Crown,—
Thick trooping with their golden tread
They come, as nightfall fills the sky,
Those strong and solemn sentinels,
To hold their mightier watch on high.