Retrospection.

THE grandsire, in the chimney corner, takes

The almanac from its accustomed place,

And while the kettle swings upon the crane,

And firelight flickers on his wrinkled face,

Reviews the slow procession of the months;

And sees again upon the hills of green

The gypsy Springtime pitch her airy tent

Among the blossoms. Then the silver sheen

Of harvest moon shines down on rustling corn

Until the hazy air of Autumn thrills

With sound of woodman's ax and hunter's horn,

And darker shadows climb the russet hills.

But while he ponders on the open page,

The last sand in the hour-glass slips away.

The end seems near of his long pilgrimage,

And he would call the fleeting year to stay.

But passing on, she goes — a sweet-faced nun —

To take within the Convent of the Past

The veil of silence. Then the gates swing shut,

And Time, the grim old warden, bolts them fast.

No more can come again those halcyon days

The Year took with it to its dim-lit cell;

But often at the bars they stand and gaze,

When through the heart rings memory's matin-bell.