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.