G. H. BONNER (MAGDALEN)

QUIETLY the old men die, in carven chairs Nodding to silence by the extinguished hearth; Their days are as a treasure nothing worth, For all their joy is stolen by the years. The striving and the fierce delights and fears Of youth trouble them not; for them the earth Is dead; in their cold hearts naught comes to birth Save ghosts: they are too old even for tears. As to the breast of some slow moving stream, Close girt with sentinel trees on either side, The sear leaves flutter down and silently Glide onward on its dark November dream, So peacefully upon the quiet tide They steal out to the still moon-silvered sea.