The World’s Doing

ONE scarce would think that we can be the same Who used, in those first childish Junes, to creep With held breath through the underwood, and leap Outside into the sun. Since this mine aim Took me unto itself, the joy which came Into my eyes at once sits hushed and deep; Nor even the sorrow moans, but falls asleep And has ill dreams. For you—your very name Seems altered in mine ears, and cannot send Heat through my heart, as in those days afar Wherein we lived indeed with the real life. Yet why should we feel shame, my dear sweet friend? Are they most honoured who without a scar Pace forth, all trim and fresh, from the splashed strife?