| 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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