FREDERICK TENNYSON
The days are sad, it is the Holy tide:
Be dusky mistletoes and hollies strown, Sharp as the spear that pierced His sacred side,
Red as the drops upon His thorny crown ; No haggard Passion and no lawless Mirth
Fright off the solemn Muse, tell sweet old tales, Sing songs as we sit brooding o'er the hearth,
Till the lamp flickers and the memory fails.
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��HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 694 My Lost Youth
i FTEN I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea ; Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still:
- A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch, in sudden gleams, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And islands that were the Hesperides Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
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