Though autumn runs swift, I recall summer bygones
When thin hours were thrift; when the golden horizons
Of sunrise and sunset rose quick to their meeting,
And the night wore regret of a day ever fleeting.

O! To drink one last draught of the schemes youth had made!
The toil of our graft now lays hidden in shade;
The sunrise comes calling, and the sunset declines,
But the autumn is waning, and the winter confines

The march of a heartbeat, the pace of its drummer,
As boot-weary feet bear the blisters of summer;
The aching-back bends ‘neath the weight of horizons
That bookmark the ends of our gold summer bygones.