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.