Normale Version: Retrospection(2)
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Like one far distant from his own dear land
Where Life's red fountain first began its flow,
Who turns him, wistful, ever to that hand
From whence the sweet winds of his country blow,

Yearning to see one cliff of that bright strand
Loom from the bosom of the ocean low,
And draws faint traces on the alien sand
Of the loved shapes that on his fancy grow —

Mountains high-capt with floating clouds or snow,
The brook he paced with through the vallies green,
The flocks steep-winding up the pastures slow,
The cottage glistening through its woodbine screen, —

All that his desolate heart of joy could know,
He feels it gone, yet never will forego!


Like him I turn me, in these lonely years,
Back towards the vision of my childhood's prime,
Fain, fain to muse, through eyes thick-glazed with tears,
On one green spot far o'er the waves of time,

There where Life's vista but span-wide appears,
Yet sunbright as a nook of Heaven's own clime;
So the dark present the dead past endears! —
Thus oft and oft my wearied foot I stay

Wandering the world's wide wilderness forlorn,
And on the unsubstantial air portray
Long by-gone scenes, from memory unworn,
Loving them more the more heart-saddening they;

As one from whom by death his Mistress dear was torn,
Dwells on her image more the more it makes him mourn!