Joys I remember, like phosphoric light
Or squibs and crackers on a gala night.
Joys are like oil: if thrown upon the tide
Of flowing life, they mix not, nor subside.
Griefs are like waters on the river thrown:
They mix entirely, and become its own. 50
Of all the good that grew of early date,
I can but parts and incidents relate:
A guest arriving, or a borrow’d day
From school, or schoolboy triumph at some play: