Sometimes from out the rush of pulsing days,
These days whose poetry was lost in prose
So long ago, left desolate on those
Far childhood paths—yet, sometimes from the haze
Of half-forgotten years, fall on our ways
Now drear, a strain of song, a June-blown rose.
Ah, sweet, so sweet unto a heart that knows
The memory of once-remembered Mays!
Only a moment’s interlude, and yet
How the heart quaffs the draught that thrills and thrills
Its soul, finding again youth’s mysteries.
What matter if tomorrow we forget—
Today the stillness of the sun-lit hills
And the low drowsy hum of summer bees!