What visions of my boyhood do I miss,
That are not here restored! All splendors pure;
All loveliness, all graces that allure;
Shapes that amaze; a Paradise that is —
Yet was not—will not in few moments be;
Glory from nakedness, that playfully
Mimics with passing life each summer boon,
Clothing the ground, replenishing the tree,
Weaving arch, bower, and delicate festoon,
Still as a dream—and, like a dream, to flee!