The deer are crouching on the sward,
Save two white fawns at play,
As they had not enough of mirth
In the long summer day.
There are our silver pheasants too,
I see their gleaming wings;
And there the peacock to the moon
Spreads wide his glittering rings.
There is no change upon the lake,
No change on leaf or flower;
There the same deer, there the same birds,
The same moonlighted hour;
As the last time when here we stood,
And looked our first farewell,
Looked as if things inanimate
Each inmost thought could tell.
E'en then my eyes with tears were wet,
But they were pleasant tears—
An offering to the memory
Of many happy years.
My heart was light with Hopes, and these
Are Birds which never sing
With the same sweet familiar song
They utter in our Spring.
Blessed privilege of youth, to look
On time without regret;
To think that which has past was fair,
That to come fairer yet.
‘Tis well for us there is no gift
Of prophecy on earth,
Or how would every pleasure be
A rose crushed in the birth.
