We know not the future, or what hands our own
May clasp, when another half decade is flown;
Our efforts may yet for a season be told
(For we re not so distressing, confoundedly old;
The crows may have stood at the edge of our eyes,
And left some tracks there that we haven't learned to prize;
The frost in our hair may be carelessly flung;
But our minds and our hearts and our souls may be young),
Still, grass-stalks, e'en now, may have lifted their heads,
That may die of the spades that will make our last beds;