A LAS , the pleasant dew is dry,
That made so sweet the morn;
And midway in the walk of life
He sits as one forlorn.

I knew the time when this was not,
When at the close of day
He brought his little boys the flowers
Ploughed up along his way.

The ewes that browsed the daisy buds
Erewhile (there were but twain),
Are now the grandams of a flock
That whiten all the plain.

The twigs he set his marriage-day,
Against the cabin door,
Make shadows in the summer now,
That reach across the floor.

The birds with red brown eyes, he sees
Fly round him, hears the low
Of pasturing cattle, hears the streams
That through his meadows flow.

He sees the pleasant lights of home,
And yet as one whose ills
Seek comfort of the winds or stars,
He stays about the hills.

The once dear wife his lingering step
A joy no longer yields;
No more he brings his boys the flowers
Ploughed up along the fields.