Sometimes from out the rush of pulsing days,

These days whose poetry was lost in prose

So long ago, left desolate on those

Far childhood paths—yet, sometimes from the haze

Of half-forgotten years, fall on our ways

Now drear, a strain of song, a June-blown rose.

Ah, sweet, so sweet unto a heart that knows

The memory of once-remembered Mays!

Only a moment’s interlude, and yet

How the heart quaffs the draught that thrills and thrills

Its soul, finding again youth’s mysteries.

What matter if tomorrow we forget—

Today the stillness of the sun-lit hills

And the low drowsy hum of summer bees!