Gdy Wiatr i Deszcz

They sing their dearest songs—

He, she, all of them—yea,

Treble and tenor and bass,

And one to play;

With the candles mooning each face ...

Ah, no; the years O!

How the sick leaves reel down in throngs!

They clear the creeping moss—

Elders and juniors—aye,

Making the pathways neat

And the garden gay;

And they build a shady seat…

Ah, no; the years, the years;

See the white storm-birds wing across!

They are blithely breakfasting all—

Men and maidens—yea,

Under the summer tree,

With a glimpse of the bay,

While pet fowl come to the knee…

Ah, no; the years O!

And the rotten rose is ript from the wall.

They change to a high new house,

He, she, all of them—aye,

Clocks and carpets and chairs

On the lawn all day,

And brightest things that are theirs…

Ah, no; the years, the years;

Down their carved names the rain-drop ploughs.