FACES IN THE FIRE
The race is o'er I might have run:
The deeds are past I might have done;
And sere the wreath I might have won.
Sunk is the last faint flickering blaze:
The vision of departed days
Is vanished even as I gaze.
The pictures, with their ruddy light,
Are changed to dust and ashes white,
And I am left alone with night.