Though grandfather has long been blind,
And his few locks are gray,
He loves to hear the summer wind
Round his pale temples play.
We'll lead him to some quiet place,
Some unfrequented nook,
Where winds breathe soft, and wild-flowers grace
The borders of the brook.
There he shall sit, as in a dream,
Though nought can he behold,
Till the brook's murmuring flow shall seem
The voice of friends of old.
Think no more of them, aged man,
For here thou hast no friend;
Think, since this life is but a span,
Of joys that have no end.