Once the wild raptures and the beating wings
Of Song were mine, the sun, the climbing flight;
The wind's great fellowship upon the height. . . .
Once Youth was mine, and the young heart that
sings!
But now the little things, the trivial things,
Beat down my spirit with their leagued might . . .
Could I, within some friendly Dive to-night,
Meet the Old Gang, 'twould make me young, by
jings!
As the mad lark rises, drunk with joy and sun,
When morning bends above the dewy meadow,
And his clear call proclaims: “The day is won!”
Over a hurried rout of driven shadow,
So should I rise and sing, had I a Bun.
O would that we were soused together, Kiddo!