In middle age, before the hearth,
Deeply absorbed in counting o’er
Successes won, he hardly heard
The fall of footsteps on the floor.
Behind his chair a fair Youth stood,
In phantom shape, and listening heard:
“I’m happier now than when a boy!”--
The visitant neither turned nor stirred.
Tenderly sad, Lost Youth mused low,
“He’s gained at length Fortune’s bequest,--
When I slipped slowly from his grasp,
He cried, ‘My Boyhood days are best!’
But, no--though learned ’mid falling tears,--
One’s best days come with Manhood’s years!”