Say, what shall be our sport today?
There's nothing on earth, in sea, or air,
Too bright, too high, too wild, too gay
For spirits like mine to dare!
‘ Tis like the returning bloom
Of those days, alas, gone by,
When I loved, each hour — I scarce knew whom —
And was blest — I scarce knew why.
Ay — those were days when life had wings,
And flew, oh, flew so wild a height
That, like the lark which sunward springs,
‘ Twas giddy with too much light.
And, tho’ of some plumes bereft,
With that sun, too, nearly set,
I've enough of light and wing still left
For a few gay soarings yet.