THE HOUSE OF REGRET

It is not that I now were happier If with the dawn my tireless feet were led Along her path, till I saw her fair head Thrown back to make the sunshine goldener: For it is well, sometimes, the things that were Are over, ere their perfectness hath fled; Lest the old love of them should fade instead, And lie like ruins round the throne of her. Now with the wisdom of increasing years I know each ancient joy a cup for tears; Yet had I drunk, while they were draughts to praise, Deeper, I were not now as men that grow Old, and sit gazing out across the snow To dream sad dreams of wasted summer days.