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 blithely breakfast 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 chiselled names the rain-drop ploughs.