O YEARS, years, years!
Would ye were rolled away,
And I, 'mid April smiles and tears,
With my true love at play.
O years, years, years,
Who were all one May!
Ah! the fragrant pine,
The fountain's pure, low bubble;
Flowers fondle her feet and mine;
Air-and-bird-wings trouble
Lightly light young leaves
Of our enchanted wood,
While the season weaves
Around our vernal mood
A beautiful silk sheath
Of sight and scent and sound,
Where we lie warm and breathe,
Softly folded round,
And our young pulses bound.

O years, years, years!
That have nor warmth nor sun,
And little else that cheers,
We are drifting on
With other things that were
Rose-red once and fair.
O years, years, years!
Drooping bowed to earth
With sorrows, wrongs, and fears,
Radiant your birth,
All one morning-mirth!
Now feeble, faint, in tears,
Wings low trailed in dust,
On your mail the rust,
Years, years, years!