SOLITUDE.
183
Shall the poor transport of an hour
Repay long years of sore distress—
The fragrance of a lonely flower
Make glad the wilderness?
Ye golden hours of life's young spring,
Of innocence, of love and truth!
Bright beyond all imagining,
Thou fairy dream of youth!
I'd give all wealth that years have piled,
The slow result of life's decay,
To be once more a little child
For one bright summer day.
