The Old Days
The old days—the far days—
The overdear and fair!—
The old days—the lost days—
How lovely they were!
The old days of Morning,
With the dew-drench on the flowers
And apple-buds and blossoms
Of those old days of ours.
Then was the _real_ gold
Spendthrift Summer flung;
Then was the _real_ song
Bird or Poet sung!
There was never censure then,—
Only honest praise—
And all things were worthy of it
In the old days.
There bide the true friends—
The first and the best;
There clings the green grass
Close where they rest:
Would they were here? No;—
Would _we_ were _there_!...
The old days—the lost days—
How lovely they were!
