By Luis G. Dato
When the slow scythe of flying fleeting Time,
Shall our eyes dull and take their morning glow,
At last shall cut the summer of our prime,
And dark Care sit upon our furrowed brow;
When the dear friends of youth we shall see go,
Like dead leaves whirling, in the evening shed,
When days shall fade, and lengthening shadows grow,
And we with the departed feel our heart grow cold;
When spite ourselves, remorselessly the years,
Shall draw us near the ultimate, dark abyss,
Nor all our prayers, nor all our sobs, our tears,
Recall to life again the buried bliss;
When light shall vanish from the thoughtful brow,
Turn sullen by the wall our useless lyre,
When we have known all that there is to know
Of Life and Love, of passion and desire;
The past shall come to us like twilight fair,
And fill our soul with pleasant revery,
Lulling to rest the cloudy face of care,
With the cool hands of tender Memory.
