Again the droning bees hum by;
Still-winged, the gray hawk wheels on high;
I drink again the wild perfumes,
And roll, and crush the grassy blooms.
Blown back to olden days, I fain
Would quaff the olden joys again;
But all the olden sweetness not
The old unmindful peace hath brought.
Wind of this summer afternoon,
Thou hast recalled my childhood's June;
My heart—still is it satisfied
By all the golden summer-tide?
Hast thou one eager yearning filled,
Or any restless throbbing stilled,
Or hast thou any power to bear
Even a little of my care?—
Ever so little of this weight
Of weariness canst thou abate?
Ah, poor thy gift indeed, unless
Thou bring the old child-heartedness,—