The time is gone when we could throw
Our angle in the sleepy stream,
And nothing more desired to know
Than was it roach or was it bream?
Sitting there in such a mute delight,
The Kingfisher would come and on the rods alight.
Or hurrying through the dewy hay
Without a thought but to make haste
We came to where the old ring lay
And bats and balls seemed heaven at least.
With our laughing and our giant strokes
The echoes clacked among the chestnuts and the oaks.
When the spring came up we got
And out among wild Emmet Hills
Blossoms, aye and pleasures sought
And found! bloom withers, pleasure chills;
Like geographers along green brooks
We named the capes and tumbling bays and horseshoe crooks.
But one day I found a man
Leaning on the bridge’s rail;
Dared his face as all to scan,
And awestruck wondered what could ail
An elder, blest with all the gifts of years,
In such a happy place to shed such bitter tears.