The marching years go by
And brush your garment's hem.
The bandits by and by
Will bid you go with them.
Trust not that caravan!
Old vagabonds are they;
They'll rob you if they can,
And make believe it's play.
Make the old robbers give
Of all the spoils they bear,—
Their truth, to help you live,—
Their joy, to keep you fair.
Ask not for gauds nor gold,
Nor fame that falsely rings;
The foolish world grows old
Caring for all these things.
Make all your sweet demands
For happiness alone,
And the years will fill your hands
With treasures rarely known.