Tell Me Not of It, Friend

TELL me not of it, friend -- when the young weep,
Their tears are lukewarm brine ; -- from our old eyes
Sorrow falls down like hail-drops of the North,
Chilling the furrows of our wither'd cheeks,
Cold as our hopes, and harden'd as our feeling :
Theirs, as they fall, sink sightless -- ours recoil,
Heap the fair plain, and bleaken all before us.