My soul grew young in early dreams,
And 'gainst the passing time I strove,
Most glad to yield all human schemes,
For one pure, boyish hour of love.
VIII.
And who but Nature's self could yield
The boon I sought, the prayer I made—
Throned in her realm of wood and field,
Of rocky realm and haunted shade?
IX.
Who but that magic Queen, whose sway
Drives Winter from his path of strife;
While all her thousand fingers play,
With bud and bird, in games of life?
X.
To her I turn'd—yet turn'd in vain;
A hopeless discontent I bear;
I snap, at each remove, some chain,
Yet never snap the chain I wear!
XI.
Yet if the wizard be—whose pow'r
May set my heart and passions free,
And still restore youth's perish'd flow'r,
And hope's gay season—thou art she.[3]