When the first blush and bloom of life have fled,
And on the summit of youth's mound we stand,
And youth to manhood gladly gives his hand,
And then quick dies, and manhood in his stead
Shows us a mist that hides an unknown land,
By wild, chill breezes are our faces fanned:
The world before us!—and no longer red,
Nor glowing with fair hope, for youth is dead.
A mist all gray is drawn before the world—
This great wide life! To fight life all alone
Is now our lot; yet other men have seen
The same vague foe; and patient souls have hurled
Their fear away, and, going, made no moan,
To find the mist God's rain on meadows green.