Now nights grow cold and colder,
And North the wild vane swings,
And round each tree and boulder
The driving snow-storm sings —
Come, make my old heart older,
O memory of lost things!
Of Hope, when promise sung her
Brave songs and I was young,
That banquets now on hunger
Since all youth's songs are sung;
Of Love, who walks with younger
Sweethearts the flowers among.
Ah, well! while Life holds levee,
Death's ceaseless dance goes on.
So let the curtains, heavy
About my couch, be drawn —
The curtains, sad and heavy,
Where all shall sleep anon.