So might the days have been brightly told— | |
Those days of song and dreams— | |
When shepherds gathered their flocks of old | |
By the blue Arcadian streams. | |
|
So in those isles of delight, that rest | |
Far off in a breezeless main, | |
Which many a bark, with a weary quest, | |
Has sought, but still in vain. | |
|
Yet is not life, in its real flight, | |
Marked thus—even thus—on earth, | |
By the closing of one hope’s delight, | |
And another’s gentle birth? | |
|
O, let us live, so that flower by flower, | |
Shutting in turn, may leave | |
A lingerer still for the sunset hour, | |
A charm for the shaded eve. |
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