Little by little the year grows old, <br />The red leaves drop from the maple boughs; <br />The sun grows dim, and the winds blow cold, <br />Down from the distant arctic seas. <br /> <br />Out of the skies the soft light dies, <br />And the shadows of autumn come creeping over, <br />And the bee and the bird are no longer heard <br />In grove or meadow, or field of clover. <br /> <br />Little by little our lives grow old, <br />Our faces no longer are fair to see; <br />For gray creeps into the curls of gold, <br />And the red fades out of the cheeks, ah me! <br /> <br />And the birds that sang till our heart strings rang <br />With strains of hope, and joy, and pleasure, <br />Have flown away; and our hearts today <br />Hear only the weird wind's solemn measure. <br /> <br />Youth and summer, and beauty and bloom, <br />Droop and die in the autumn weather, <br />But up from the gloom of the winter's tomb, <br />They shall rise, in God's good time, together.<br /><br />Ella Wheeler Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/growing-old-21/
