The Old Days

The old days—the far days— The overdear and fair!— The old days—the lost days— How lovely they were! The old days of Morning, With the dew-drench on the flowers And apple-buds and blossoms Of those old days of ours. Then was the real gold Spendthrift Summer flung; Then was the real song Bird or Poet sung! There was never censure then,— Only honest praise— And all things were worthy of it In the old days. There bide the true friends— The first and the best; There clings the green grass Close where they rest: Would they were here? No;— Would we were there!... The old days—the lost days— How lovely they were!