In childhood’s years, what dreamy days
In spring’s soft airs or autumn’s haze!
How golden bright the sunset skies
Where just beyond our heaven lies!
Each dawn the sun has merry plays
With Rosy-mist, who veils his rays
To shield us from his glory blaze,
While she paints morn such lovely dyes
In Childhood’s years.
We tread but joy-lit, sunny ways,
Nor dream of dread, that is decay’s:—
No sorrow comes but quickly flies—
No love is known that cools and dies—
No crafty selfishness betrays
In childhood’s years.