The Old Hundred Years

God, thou art gathering in Thy Bosom's fold
The hundred years where all I love drew breath,
And sought and found their little age of gold,
And fell on dreams awhile, then fell on death.
Oh, sweet the summers that have known their prime
The English hedgerows where the catkins blew
When they were passing by, or breathed the time
Of the roses red and white and all their dew!
Oh, blest to them the earth, to them the sky!
And how they listened when the lark sang high!
But now, of human kind, one only hears
How ran their accents when great news befell:
Gone are those days of simple miracle:
Thou coverest their voices with the years.