Taps 



is here, and the same unchanging 

 laws that govern in the garden and the 

 grove apply as well to those who plant 

 and plan. A few short weeks ago the 

 lawn was clean and green, well-trimmed 

 and comely. Tonight it is strewn with 

 the oak leaves of accomplished fact. 

 There is no longer quick response to 

 the discharging clouds. The sun has 

 lost its power. The green has turned 

 to gold. The gold is on its way to dust. 

 The last log on the hearth is turning 

 now to ash. The hands of the clock 

 still move forever forward; never back. 

 There is no force in earth or air, no 

 alchemy in sky or cloud, can stay the 

 year's decline. 



Would that we might live those years 

 again! There has been much that has 

 been truly bright and beautiful, and 

 many golden hours have set an impress 

 on our hearts which time shall not 

 efface. And yet there have been roses 

 set that never flowered, and weeds and 

 thorns have come sometimes where 



[205] 



