Four springtimes lost: and in the fifth we stand, br here in this quiet hour of glory, still, br while o'er the bridal land br the westering sun dwells in untroubled gold, br a bridegroom proud of his permitted will, br whom grateful rapture suffers not be bold, br but tender now and bland br his amber locks and bended gaze are shed, br brimming, above the couch'd and happy clime: br all is content and ripe delight, full-fed. br And as your fingers brush my hand br so too the winning time br would charm me from regretful reverie br that keeps me somewhat sad, remembering — br not the old woodland days, for thou art near br and hold'st them safely hid br to rise and shine again, when waning skies shall bid — br but later dawns o' the year, away from thee br liv'd thro', even here, br and golden embraces of the light-hearted time br when I was sad at heart, remembering br the clear enchantments of our single year, br our woodland prime of love, its violet-budded vow, br receding ever now br farther and farther down the past, a gleam br that turns to softest pearl the luminous haze br drifting between in from the golden days br when I was sad at inmost heart, remembering br thee and the woodland season of bright laughter: — br so in my perverse and most loitering dream br (O fading, fading days!) br each season claims the homage due, long after br its glory has faded to an outcast thing.