Sometimes from out the rush of pulsing days,
These days whose poetry was lost in prose
So long ago, left desolate on those
Far childhood paths — yet, sometimes from the haze
Of half-forgotten years, fall on our ways
Now drear, a strain of song, a June-blown rose.
Ah, sweet, so sweet unto a heart that knows
The memory of once-remembered Mays!
Only a moment's interlude, and yet
How the heart quaffs the draught that thrills and thrills
Its soul, finding again youth's mysteries.
What matter if tomorrow we forget —
Today the stillness of the sun-lit hills
And the low drowsy hum of summer bees!