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Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me,
To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree!
To suck once more in every breath their little souls away,
And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's bright summer day,
When rushing forth like untamed colt, the reckless truant boy
Wandered through green woods all day long, a mighty heart of joy!
I'm sadder now, I have had cause; but O! I'm proud to think
That each pure joy-fount loved of yore, I yet delight to drink;—
Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm unclouded sky,
Still mingle music with my dreams as in the days gone by.
When summer's loveliness and light fall round me dark and cold,
I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse,—a heart that hath waxed old!
