As we wander alone where the moonlight reposes, And the wind o'er the ripple is tuneful and sweet, When the stars glitter out as the day flower closes, And the night-bird and dew-drop are all that we meet; Oh! then, when the warm flush of thought is unsealing The bonds that a cold world too often keeps fast, We shall find that the deepest and dearest of feeling Is pouring its tide in a dream of the past. Oh! who shall have travelled through life's misty morning, Forgetting all way-marks that rose on their track? Though the things we loved then had maturity's scorning, Though we cast them behind, yet we like to look back. Though the present may charm us with magical numbers, And lull the rapt spirit, entrancing it fast, Yet 'tis rarely the heart is so sound in its slumbers, As to rest without mingling some dream of the past. Oh! the days that are gone, they will have no returning, And 'tis wisest to bury the hopes that decay, But the incense that's purest and richest in burning, Is oft placed where all round it is fading away. Though the days that are gone had more canker than blossom, And even that blossom too tender to last, Yet had we the power, oh! where is the bosom Would thrust from its visions the dreams of the past? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE RAT by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES RAIN-SONGS by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE DARK-EYED GENTLEMAN by THOMAS HARDY SA-CA-GA-WE-A; THE INDIAN GIRL WHO GUIDED LEWIS AND CLARK by EDNA DEAN PROCTOR POEM FOR PICTURE: TO AN OIL PAINTING BY WINSLOW HOMER (DRIFTWOOD) by FRANK ANKENBRAND JR. |