They sing their dearest songs-- 
He, she, all of them--yea, 
Treble and tenor and bass. 
And one to play;
With the candles mooning each face.... 
Ah, no; the years O!
How the sick leaves reel down in throngs! 

They clear the creeping moss-- 
Elders and juniors--aye, 
Making the pathways neat 
And the garden gay;
And they build a shady seat.... 
Ah, no; the years, the years;
See, the white stormbirds wing across! 

They are blithely breakfasting all-- 
Men and maidens--yea, 
Under the summer tree, 
With a glimpse of the bay,
While pet fowl come to the knee.... 
Ah, no; the years O!
And the rotten rose is ripped from the wall. 

They change to a high new house, 
He, she, all of them--aye, 
Clocks and carpets and chairs 
On the lawn all day,
And brightest things that are theirs.... 
Ah, no; the years, the years;
Down their carved names the raindrop plows.