After the fretful hours were done — 
Morning, noon, and afternoon, 
After dusk had come, too soon, 
And the sun, 
A flushed, speechless creditor, 
Upon our lack 
Had turned a hasty back, 
I turned my own 
Upon small swarming trifles and edged fears, 
To face their residue from other years. 
Going from an old house to a new 
Gives one curious things to do — 
Closets to empty, 
Heartaches to throw away, 
Threadbare joy 
To divest of mothballs, 
Papers to destroy: 
Letters from golden lads and girls who say 
They have come home from the university 
With nothing learned but what they were not taught, 
Or, they are in love again, 
Or, they are sad 
Because of too little love and too much thought, 
Or, asking what was meant on such a day 
When a certain person said 
The sort of thing people will say . . . 
It doesn't matter. 
Some of them are dead, 
And some are married, and a few 
Are famous. 
Going from an old house to a new 
Gives one tiring things to do. 
And when we leave that new house, as we must, 
Maybe, after some yet unlived years, 
Shall I look back 
To this night, and call myself a fool 
For having cried in my heart for the old school 
And the university 
And the lovers and friends 
Lost in the dark forest of the world? 
Ambitions shrink; 
Time pulls the best awry; 
And ends 
Come harder as we grow older. 
The nights grow colder — 
Or do I?