Past my meridian, sinking toward the season
When Hope's horizon is with clouds o'ercast,
When sportive Fancy yields to sober Reason,
I came and questioned the remembered Past.
I came and stood by that oak-tree so hoary,
Forgetting all the intervening years,
Stood on that turf, so blent with childhood's story,
And poured my heart out in one gush of tears.
I had returned to claim my father's dwelling,
Borne like a waif on Time's returning tide—
Summoned I came, by one brief missive telling
That all I left behind and loved had died.
Wiser and sadder than in life's bright morning,
As softly fall the sun's last rays on me,
As when I saw their early glow adorning
The emerald foliage of this old oak-tree.