WHAT do I owe the years, that I should bring
Green leaves to crown them King?
Blown, barren sands, the thistle, and the brier,
Dead hope, and mocked desire,
And sorrow, vast and pitiless as the sea:
These are their gifts to me.

What do I owe the years, that I should love
And sing the praise thereof?
Perhaps, the lark's clear carol wakes with morn,
And winds, amid the corn,
Clash fairy cymbals; but I miss the joys,
Missing the tender voice —
Sweet as a throstle's after April rain —
That may not sing again.

What do I owe the years, that I should greet
Their bitter, and not sweet,
With wine, and wit, and laughter? Rather thrust
The wine - cup to the dust!
What have they brought to me, these many years?
Silence, and bitter tears.