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 storm-birds 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 ript 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 rain-drop ploughs.
By Thomas Hardy