Fair were the dreamful days of old,
When, in the sleepy summer shade,
Beneath the beeches on the wold,
The shepherds lay, and gently played
Music to maidens, who, afraid,
Drew all together rapturously,
Their white soft hands like white leaves laid,
In the old, dear days in Arcady.
Men were not then as they are now,
Haunted and terrified by creeds;
They sought not then unceasingly to know
The end, that as a magnet leads;
Nor told with austere fingers beads,
Nor reasoned with their grief and glee;
But rioted in pleasant meads,
In the old, dear days in Arcady.
The future may be wrong or right, —
The present is distinctly wrong;
For life and love have lost delight,
And bitter even is our song.
And year by year, grey doubt grows strong,
And Death is all that seems to dree;
Wherefore, with weary hearts we long
For the old, dear days in Arcady.
Envoi.
Glories and triumphs ne'er will cease,
But men may sound the heavens and sea;
One thing is lost for aye, — the peace
Of the old, dear days in Arcady.