The sad bells bow the forehead on the hands.
A honeyed ringing: under the new skies
They bring you memories of old village faces,
Cabins gone now, old well-sides, old dear places;
And men who loved the cause that never dies.
THE LAMENTATION OF THE OLD PENSIONER
I had a chair at every hearth,
When no one turned to see,
With "Look at that old fellow there,