Where Summer once hung low above our hands
And we, as children, dreamed to dreaming waves,
And all the world seemed made for you and me.
Sappho
It is too late; for now the wine of life
Is spilt, the shore-lark of first love has flown,
And all the Summer waned.
Yet, long ago,
How lightly I had passed through any pain,—
How gladly I had gone to any home,