The days were jocund, now gone;
Although we may'st be happy more in that array,
Twelve years of merry life now atone
Our minds, to be on Spring's spray.
But more we'll write them heaps upon heaps
To rest ourselves under their shadowy leaves.
Now, when we sit schizophreniously alone,
Our broken windows bear the bell-beat
Reminding us much are undone;
And upon boughs of past days minds fleet.
We are tired of recurring thought
What we had done to them, or we ought.
12-26-2014
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem