Then life was young
And roses hung
In gay festoons from star to star,
And o’er the farm
A silvered charm,
The moonlight, flooded full and far—
The moonlight, telling wondrous tales
Of things that are not, and that are.
How strange the thrall
Around it all!
The subtle flapping of a wing!
You plainly hear
Each wheaten spear
Unto its neighbour whispering,
And almost catch their secrets, too—
Those kindred children of the Spring!
And, watching so,
The branches throw
Fantastic shadows on the grass:
How quaint and clear
Their lines appear!
A woven way where fancies pass—
Those secret bairns, that come to most,
And live and breathe—but die—alas!
No longer chimes
The gold of rhymes
That would make music, ay or nay!
I number still
The month, at will,
Clare gave to me a lilac spray ...
’Tis dead and withered now—how long?
An age, a year, or yesterday.
Thus rhyme and spray
Have turned to clay,
While Discord plays on life’s guitar ...
’Twere wise and meet
To book a seat,
A cushioned seat, in Daphne’s car,
While bright eyes shine, and roses twine
In gay festoons from star to star!
[Decoration: Gold mining camp]