IT is too late to call thee now, I will not nurse that dream again; For every joy that lit my brow Would bring its after-storm of pain. Besides, the mist is half withdrawn, The barren mountain-side lies bare, And sunshine and awaking morn Paint no more golden visions there. Yet ever in my grateful breast Thy darling shade shall cherished be; For God alone doth know how blessed My early years have been in thee! |