The joys that thrill, the ill that thralls,
Pressed down on heart and brain-
These are the only horologues,
The Age's loss or gain.
And I am old in all of these,
And wonder if I know
The man begotten of the boy,
Who loved that long ago.
A lilac bush close to the gate,
A locust at the door,
A low, wide window flower-filled,
With ivy covered o'er.
A face—O love of childhood dreams,
Lily in form and name—
It comes back now in these day-dreams,
The same yet not the same.
My childhood's friend! Well gathered are
The sheaves of many days,
But this one sheaf is garnered in,
Bound by my love always.
Where have you wandered, child, since when
Together merrily,
We gathered cups of columbine
By lazy Rapanee?
The green spears of the flagflower,
Down by the old mill-race,
Are weapons now for other hands,
Who mimic warfare chase.
You were so tender, yet so strong,
So gentle, yet so free,
Your every word, whenever heard,
Seemed wondrous wise to me.
You marvelled if the dead could hear
Our steps, that passed at will
Their low green houses in the elm-
Crowned churchyard on the hill.
And I, whom your sweet childhood's trust,
Esteemed as most profound,
Thought that they heard, as in a dream,
The shadow of a sound.