The past, a waste where memory cannot pluck
One solitary blossom. Closed to me
Are nature’s stores of joy. In vain the sun
Sheds blessings down from his ambrosial throne
Upon a thousand charms—the lone old man
Beholds them not. The voice of birds in spring,
The whispered melody of murmuring streams,
The hum of insects, and the myriad tones
Of love and life, that on the liberal air,
Fraught with the perfumes of the breezy flowers,