These dreams of mine refuse to let me go,
And hold me fast with such entreating face,
With such insistent fondness of embrace,
That once again I range the Long Ago;
Nor at this moment would I care to know
The Present's most rememberable grace;
My feet are bounding in the woodland race,
And everywhere Hope's ringing trumpets blow.
The unbounded forest and its streams are ours,
Its luscious fruits and nuts, its beauteous flowers,
With trees that lift their splendors to the sky;
While rare, melodious birds such strains prolong
That all the universe is filled with song,
And nought that breathes seems ever born to die.