When we carry our sick hearts abroad amidst the joyous things,
That through the leafy places glance on many-colour’d wings,
With shadows from the past we fill the happy woodland shades,
And a mournful memory of the dead is with us in the glades;
And our dream-like fancies lend the wind an echo’s plaintive tone
Of voices, and of melodies, and of silvery laughter gone.
But are we free to do even thus—to wander as we will,
Bearing sad visions through the grove, and o’er the breezy hill?
No! in our daily paths lie cares, that ofttimes bind us fast,
While from their narrow round we see the golden day fleet past.