With a sense of things that are over,
A touch of the years long dead,
A perfume of withered clover,
An echo of kindness fled,
We wake on this morn when snow-wreaths
Silently thaw to rain,
And the love that the old years know breathes
Dying, not born again.
Cold and grey is the morning,
Grey with evanishing rose;
We wake, and I feel her warning,
I know what the doomed man knows.
Stayed are the streams of madness,
Dried is the fount of tears;
But oh, at the heart what sadness!
And oh, in the soul what fears!