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Unfelt, unknown. Alas! with all, too soon
The golden hours of infancy are past;
The spotless heart receives the world's first stair,
And learns—perchance unconsciously—to feel
That sin and sorrow ever here below
Come hand in hand. And though each passing year
Brings shadows, light at first, but deeper felt
As life rolls onward, with its gathering tide
Of joys and sorrows, still *tis well to feel,
The perfect bliss of childhood's morning hour
Could only shine upon a stainless mind,
A purity, which, once the world's cold breath
Has dimmed its snow, can never come again.
The golden hours of infancy are past;
The spotless heart receives the world's first stair,
And learns—perchance unconsciously—to feel
That sin and sorrow ever here below
Come hand in hand. And though each passing year
Brings shadows, light at first, but deeper felt
As life rolls onward, with its gathering tide
Of joys and sorrows, still *tis well to feel,
The perfect bliss of childhood's morning hour
Could only shine upon a stainless mind,
A purity, which, once the world's cold breath
Has dimmed its snow, can never come again.
No; though the mighty river may sweep on,
With all the lustre of the summer skies
Reflected on the glorious mirror of its breast,
Yet never more can those deep waters seem
To dance with murmuring gladness on their way,
Like the bright mountain streamlet whence they sprang.
And life's meridian tide, with placid flow,
May glide unruffled on its peaceful course;
But once the joyous dayspring has gone by,
And merry childhood's shallow sparkling rill
Has blended with the deeper waves of time,
The midday sun can touch that shaded stream
With living light no more.
With all the lustre of the summer skies
Reflected on the glorious mirror of its breast,
Yet never more can those deep waters seem
To dance with murmuring gladness on their way,
Like the bright mountain streamlet whence they sprang.
And life's meridian tide, with placid flow,
May glide unruffled on its peaceful course;
But once the joyous dayspring has gone by,
And merry childhood's shallow sparkling rill
Has blended with the deeper waves of time,
The midday sun can touch that shaded stream
With living light no more.
Yet would not I,
With cold ingratitude, thus seem to mourn,
As if the hours of infancy alone
Were fraught with purest joy; for my fair lot
With cold ingratitude, thus seem to mourn,
As if the hours of infancy alone
Were fraught with purest joy; for my fair lot
