Next, the shades of mild evening close gently around,
And lengthen'd reflection must stalk o'er the ground;
Through her lantern of magic past pleasures are seen,
And we then only know what our day-dreams have been:
On the painted illusion we gaze while we can,
Though we often exclaim, What a bauble is man! —
In youth but a gewgaw — in age but a toy —
The same empty trifle as man and as boy!