For stories which were left there long ago
(Which, like most fishy ventures, as is known,
Through many changing years have bred and grown);
To beat the big drum of our vanity,
To clash the cymbals of our boisterous glee;
To bind again the old-time friendships fast,
To fight once more the battles of the past.
Beneath the blue of this clear sunlit sky,
Beneath the storm-cloud, rudely lingering nigh,
From night to night—from changing day to day—