Twine ye the wreath for her gladsome brow,
Gather the buds, ay, the buds that keep
Such trembling dreams in their breasts, asleep,
Beauteous types of her heart are they;
Cull them from streamlet and glen away!
Here, here, when the sun is low,
We shall sit again, when the shadows throw
Their dusky wings o’er mount and sea,
And speak of the past, and the time to be!
Counting the links that have broken away