With the happy harmless faces, 

 Dreaming till the purple twilight 

 In their flowery garden-places, 

 Finding every year the sunshine 

 And the wind a little colder, 

 Growing, tho' they hardly guessed it, 

 Very gradually older, 

 Till at last they grew so frail 

 That to their gardens they were carried, 

 Very feeble and exhausted, 

 Weak as babes—But still they tarried, 

 Lying till the purple twilight 

 Wrapped in wool but hardly warm, 

 Wearing shawls of costliest texture 

 Lest the wind might do them harm, 

 Feeling very faint sensations 

 Of delight in each old breast, 

 Twittering with tiny voices 

 Like young swallows in a nest. 

 Then the young men spoke together 

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