Many faults, ill to bear, bred the theme of Sorrow;
Many virtues, dear to see, induced the gush of Joy.
Thus, for awhile, as leaving thee in joy, was I loth to break that spell;
I roamed to other things and thoughts, and fashioned other books.
But in a season of reflection, after many days,
A thought stood before me in its garment of the past,—and lo, a legion with it!
They came in thronging bands,—I could not fight nor fly them,—
And so they took me to their tent, the prisoner of thoughts.
Then, I bade thee greet me well, and heed my cheerful counsels;
For every day we have a Friend, who changeth not with time.