I sang that song on Sunday, br To witch an idle while, br I sang that song on Monday, br As fittest to beguile; br I sang it as the year outwore, br And the new slid in; br I thought not what might shape before br Another would begin. br br I sang that song in summer, br All unforeknowingly, br To him as a new-comer br From regions strange to me: br I sang it when in afteryears br The shades stretched out, br And paths were faint; and flocking fears br Brought cup-eyed care and doubt.