Were they not memories of things known before,--
Not the strange vision of an unknown shore,
That met us when in childhood we began
To look upon our dwelling-place, and ran
Fearless to meet our fortune; when our eyes
Saw life with wonder, but without surprise;
When, though newcomers, no strange note we heard
In voice of wind or wave or song of bird;
And looking on the hills and trees and flowers
We loved, and without question made them ours;
And trusted the dumb creature and the hand
That guided us, nor sought to understand?
Were they not greetings of things old and dear,--
Not the strange voices of an alien sphere,--
That greeted us and linked us, with a bond
Of speech familiar, to some home beyond?
We were a part of all that we beheld
In those young days: it was our joy that welled
Into the sunshine with the mountain rill,
Our heart that in the rose’s heart lay still,
Our wings that held the sea-bird o’er the foam,
Our feet that brought the wandering outcast home.
Earth had no secret that we could not share,
For everything we saw and loved we were.
Not when defenceless on the earth we stood
In childhood doubted we that life was good.
Not when love made us part of everything
Could we distrust the hidden fountain-spring.
But when the years began to separate
From Life our lives, when all that once seemed great
In heaven and earth, all wonder and delight
Were narrowed to the measure of our sight;
When knowledge of the suffering and wrong
That nature dealt the weak to serve the strong,
When records of man’s greed and lust and pride
Defaced life’s beauty, and its hope belied,--
How had we then that mockery withstood,
Or trusted that the source of life was good,
Had not the memory of its old caress
Reproached our hearts in their unfaithfulness;
Had we not once beheld a face so sweet
It could not but express a heart that beat
For us, and knew what waited us, the while
It armed us for the darkness with its smile;
Had we not known those vanished hours that wove
Of homely human bonds immortal love;
Of flowers, and stars, and woods, and mountain streams,
And things that die, imperishable dreams?