When I was but a sprig of May,
With wonders to command,
Above all else I loved most well
What none could understand;
And dear were things far-off—far-off, but nothing near at hand.
O, now it was the sunset isle
Beyond the weather-vane;
And now it was the chime I heard
From belfry-towers of Spain;
But never yet the little leaf that tapped my window-pane.
Heigh-ho, the wistful things unseen
That reach, as I did then,
To guess, and wear the heart of youth
With eager Why and When!
And never eye takes heed of them, in all the world of men.