Dream not of days to come—of that Unknown
Whither Hope wanders—maze without a clue;
Give their true witchery to the flowers;—thine own
Youth in their youth renew.
Avarice, remember when the cowslip's gold
Lured and yet lost its glitter in thy grasp.
Do thy hoards glad thee more than those of old?
Those wither'd in thy clasp,
From these thy clasp falls palsied.—It was then
That thou wert rich—thy coffers are a lie;
Alas, poor fool, Joy is the wealth of men,
And Care their penury.
Come, foil'd Ambition, what hast thou desired?
Empire and power?—O, wanderer, tempest-tost!
These once were thine, when life's gay spring inspired
Thy soul with glories lost.
Let the flowers charm thee back to that rich time
When golden Dreamland lay within thy chart,
When Love bestow'd a realm indeed sublime—
The boundless human heart.
Hark, hark again, the tread of bashful feet!
Hark the boughs rustling round the trysting-place!
Let air again with one dear breath be sweet,
Earth fair with one dear face.
Brief-lived first flowers—first love! The hours steal on
To prank the world in summer's pomp of hue,
But what can flaunt beneath a fiercer sun
Worth what we lose in you?
Oft by a flower, a leaf, in some loved book
We mark the lines that charm us most;—Retrace
Thy life;—recall its loveliest passage;—Look,
Dead violets keep the place!