The old man felt the fresh air o'er him blowing Waving thin locks from musing temples pale; Felt the quick sun through cloud and azure going, And the light dance of leaves upon the gale, In that mysterious symbol-change of earth Which looks like death, though but restoring birth. Seasons return; for him shall not return Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn. Whatever garb the mighty mother wore, Nature to him was changeless evermore.-- List, not a sigh!--though fall'n on evil days, With darkness compass'd round--those sightless eyes Need not the sun; nightly he sees the rays, Nightly he walks the bowers of Paradise. High, pale, still, voiceless, motionless, alone, Death-like in calm as monumental stone, Lifting his looks into the farthest skies, He sate: And as when some tempestuous day Dies in the hush of the majestic eve, So on his brow--where grief has pass'd away, Reigns that dread stillness grief alone can leave. III. And while he sate, nor saw, nor sigh'd,--drew near A timorous trembling step;--from the far clime The Pilgrim Woman came: long year on year, In brain-sick thought that takes no heed of time, How had she pined to gaze upon that brow Last seen in youth, when she was young:--AND NOW! And now! O words that make the sepulchre Of all our Past! Life sheds no sadder tear Than, when recalling what the Hours inter Of hopes, of passions, of the things that made Our hearts once quicken with tumultuous bliss, We feel what worlds within ourselves can fade, Sighing "And now!"--Alas the nothingness Even of love--had it no life but this! IV. Thus as she stood and gazed, and noiseless wept, Two young slight forms across the threshold crept And reach'd the blind grey man, and kiss'd his hand, And then a moment o'er his lips there stray'd The old, familiar, sweet yet stately smile. On either side the children took their stand, And all the three were silent for awhile: Till one, the gentler, whisper'd some soft word, Mingling her young locks with that silvery hair; And the old man the child's meek voice obey'd, Rose,--lingering yet to breathe the gladsome air-- Or catch the faint note of the neighbouring bird; Then leaning on the two, his head he bow'd, And from the daylight pensive pass'd away. Sharp swept the wind, the thrush forsook the spray, And the poor Pilgrim wept at last aloud. V.