All vivid in the present. Every thing
Has its own voice, its sound. As once I passed—
Not having passed it for a length of years—
An old park-gate in manhood, which I oft
Had entered when a boy, the simple click
Of its loud latch, was recognised again
In one brief moment, and it brought to sight
All those companions who, in school-boy days,
Had there surrounded me; and heavy thoughts
Pressed on my spirit, for I knew that some