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THE POET TO HIS CHILDHOOD.
Que vous ai-je done fait, ô mes jeunes années!
Victor Hugo.
In my thought I see you stand with a path on either hand,
—Hills that look into the sun, and there a river'd meadow-land.
And your lost voice with the things that it decreed across me thrills,
When you thought, and chose the hills.
"If it prove a life of pain, greater have I judged the gain.
With a singing soul for music's sake, I climb and meet the rain,
And I choose, whilst I am calm, my thought and labouring to be
Unconsoled by sympathy."
