Thou friend whom chilling years have altered not,
When shall we once again by winter fire
Or in the summer sun, quench our desire
Of pleasant converse, mingling thought with thought?
For we have wandered far abroad, and brought
Treasures from many lands,--joys that require
The sympathy of friends that will not tire,
But find an interest though the tale be nought.
Come then, for Summer sheds her sickly flowers,
And the new buds, unable to expand,
Hang dripping on the stalk: notice that hours
Are near, in mercy portioned to our land,
When rest is granted to the outward eye,
And thought is busy with the things gone by.