The one so glad—the other such despair,
(For who can find a comfort in the past;)
So do our feelings harden, or decay,
Encrusting with hard selfishness too late,
Or bearing that deep wound, whereof we die.
Where are the buoyant spirits of our youth?
Where are the dancing steps, that but kept time
To our own inward gladness—where the light
That flushed the cheek into one joyous rose:
That lit the lips, and filled the eyes with smiles?—
Gone, gone as utterly, as singing birds,
And opening flowers, and honey-laden bees,
And shining leaves, are from yon forest gone.
I know this from myself—the words I speak
Were written first with tears on mine own heart;
And yet, albeit, it was a lovely time!
Who would recall their youth, and be again,
The dreaming—the believing—the betrayed.
The feverishness of hope, the agony,
As every disappointment taught a truth;
For still is knowledge bought by wretchedness,
Who could find energy to bear again?
Ye clear bright stars, that from the face of heaven
Shine out in tranquil loveliness, how oft
Have ye been witness to my passionate tears;
Altho' beloved, and beautiful, and young;
Yet happiness was not with my unrest.
For I had pleasure, not content; each wish
Seemed granted, only to be weariness.
