The Old Grey Year Is Near His Term In Sooth, And Now With Backward Eye And Soft-Laid Palm Awakens To A Golden Dream Of Youth, A Second Childhood Lovely And Most Calm, And The Smooth Hour About His Misty Head An Awning Of Enchanted Splendour Weaves, Of Maples, Amber, Purple And Rose-Red, And Droop-Limbed Elms Down-Dropping Golden Leaves. With Still Half-Fallen Lids He Sits And Dreams Far In A Hollow Of The Sunlit Wood, Lulled By The Murmur Of Thin-Threading Streams, Nor Sees The Polar Armies Overflood The Darkening Barriers Of The Hills, Nor Hears The North-Wind Ringing With A Thousand Spears.