O the glad days, the promise of our spring,
When wandering by thy side I lived in thee!
Yet, can I hear the light winds carolling,
About the woods that echoed to our glee,
The heather on the hills, the long green downs,
The slopes, the glades, the sunshine and the shade,
The spring-time earth, the heaven that seldom frowns,
The love, whose substance dazzled all parade;
All is yet there, nor change hath marred the spot;
Remembrance fashions all as once it stood:
’Tis not the same, the heather knows me not,
The dancing water, nor the talking wood;
And all is changed, and I am not the same,
Nought speaks of self, save some unreal name.