And make my youthful palace seem so mean?
O gold! that robs this world of half its wealth
O lore! that cheats the soul of joy and health,
I'd blot these weary years from heart and brain
To live that sweet delusion o'er again.
But wherefore mourn, or sigh, or think it strange,
Earth moves, time flies, man grows and all things change.
O gold! that robs this world of half its wealth
O lore! that cheats the soul of joy and health,
I'd blot these weary years from heart and brain
To live that sweet delusion o'er again.
But wherefore mourn, or sigh, or think it strange,
Earth moves, time flies, man grows and all things change.
'Tis clearer now, I see the gable roof
Look outward from the elm-tree's verdant woof
Like some familiar face, and lower still
The friendly wild-rose on the window sill,
Where oft I sat when day and toil were o'er,
And longed to roam the world on sea and shore,
And dreamed of love and fame and cruel wars,
Awhile the night wind whispered to the stars.
Ah yes! I see the woodbine on the ell,
The towering wellsweep that I knew so well,
And on the barn the same old weather-vane
That told of yore of sunshine and of rain.
But half the quaint old roof has fallen in
And winter blasts have worn its shingles thin,
While each dejected window-sash complains
That storms and stones have robbed it of its panes;
Upon one hinge the front door grinds and squeaks,
Like some poor human thing it plainly speaks
Look outward from the elm-tree's verdant woof
Like some familiar face, and lower still
The friendly wild-rose on the window sill,
Where oft I sat when day and toil were o'er,
And longed to roam the world on sea and shore,
And dreamed of love and fame and cruel wars,
Awhile the night wind whispered to the stars.
Ah yes! I see the woodbine on the ell,
The towering wellsweep that I knew so well,
And on the barn the same old weather-vane
That told of yore of sunshine and of rain.
But half the quaint old roof has fallen in
And winter blasts have worn its shingles thin,
While each dejected window-sash complains
That storms and stones have robbed it of its panes;
Upon one hinge the front door grinds and squeaks,
Like some poor human thing it plainly speaks
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