The Visitant

In middle age, before the hearth, Deeply absorbed in counting o’er Successes won, he hardly heard The fall of footsteps on the floor.

Behind his chair a fair Youth stood, In phantom shape, and listening heard: “I’m happier now than when a boy!”-- The visitant neither turned nor stirred.

Tenderly sad, Lost Youth mused low, “He’s gained at length Fortune’s bequest,-- When I slipped slowly from his grasp, He cried, ‘My Boyhood days are best!’ But, no--though learned ’mid falling tears,-- One’s best days come with Manhood’s years!”