THE FLIGHT OF THE CHILDREN.
They fade to fairies, fade and pass
Into the dimness of the dew,
Into the greenness of the grass,
Among the blossoms glad and new;
They wander off into the wind,
And leave me, dreaming, far behind.
Into the dimness of the dew,
Into the greenness of the grass,
Among the blossoms glad and new;
They wander off into the wind,
And leave me, dreaming, far behind.
Then some great greyness round me steals;
My hollow hands I faintly fold;
The awful touch of blindness seals
My glimmering eyes, and I am old—
So old I care not for my years,
So old that I have done with tears.
My hollow hands I faintly fold;
The awful touch of blindness seals
My glimmering eyes, and I am old—
So old I care not for my years,
So old that I have done with tears.
. . . Soon little faces, flushed and fair,
As other faces used to be,
Climb, full of wonder, up my chair,
And whisper, while they look at me;—
As other faces used to be,
Climb, full of wonder, up my chair,
And whisper, while they look at me;—
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