O Love, whose patient pilgrim feet
  Life’s longest path have trod,
Whose ministry hath symbolled sweet
  The dearer love of God,—
The sacred myrtle wreathes again
  Thine altar, as of old;
And what was green with summer then,
  Is mellowed, now, to gold.

Not now, as then, the Future’s face
  Is flushed with fancy’s...