Retrospection

WHEN we all lived together In the farm among the hills, And the early summer weather Had flushed the little rills; And Jack and Tom were playing Beside the open door, And little Jane was maying On the slanting meadow floor; And mother clipped the trellis, And father read his book By the little attic window,— So close above the brook: How little did we reckon Of ghosts that flit and pass, Of fates that nod and beckon In the shadows on the grass; Of beauty soon deflowered, Engulfed, and borne away,— And youth that sinks devoured In the chasm of a day! Courageous and undaunted, As in a golden haze We lived a life enchanted, Nor stopped to count the days. We that were in the story Saw not the magic light, The pathos, and the glory That shines on me to-night.