And showered their rosy rain—
Is it all that shall fall in that pleasant path,
If we meet at the gate again?
O Gilfillan gay! why seek away
From lady-love, kith, and kin
The world's Well-done, or 'neath foreign sun
The golden spurs to win?
O womanly heart! be still, be still!
It is threescore years to-day—
And thou canst throb with this wild, wild tide,