Subtly, so subtly, the workings of Time
Must alter the shape of the outer shell
Of a body once vibrant and molded so well!
Slowly, but surely, like a wood-boring worm,
Out of the gloom of a perilous clime,
Firm in the grasp of a seasonable term,
Comes the chill-laden wintry spell
Of sad infirmity in a dismal sphere;
Lost in the woods of a cherished dream,
In the thickening fog of Nature's scheme,
Midst muffled sounds of distant strains
Are earlier years that knew no fear
Of time and age, what now remains
Eternity must rightly redeem.