O blessed and thrice blessed evermore
To grow old in the chaste immutable silence,
Thinking thine own thoughts! At the golden door
Of thine own glade the quiet sunbeams pour,
And thou look’st out across the hazy plain
From the cool greenness of thine ancient throne:
Where is the biting winter? neither pain
Nor vain regrets in thy deep heart remain,
Nor dost thou count the weary drooping years
In slow and miserly cycle one by one.
1913.