We had long, long days to play
When old friendship was sumptuous;
Now, twenty and seven autumns away
I stand, and all gently pass.

Now the bridge stands still
Until white swans come under it
Though they can do to it's fill
And we, sombrely counted unfit.

Now I shout at my highest
To the still skies of February.
A clear and resonant call, prest
To asure us, or not to worry.

As 'tis merely I who want
To call on all dear ones, hid;
And those glossy days taunt
Us, as all they had us outdid.

We are grown to years' continuety
And mundanity can't deny
Whereof they are clear and pity
In some refusal of biding 'Bye'.

We are torn, as if, half of grasses
Or, morning dew drops can't be grand
On store, and schizophrenia press
Not to rest there or stand.