| How many years of sun and snow Have come to Camden Town, Since through its streets and in its shade, I wandered up and down. |
| Not many more than to you here These verses hapless flung, Yet of the Long Ago they seem To me who am yet young. |
| We strive to measure life by Time, And con the seasons o’er, To find, alas! that days are years, And years for evermore. |
| The joys that thrill, the ill that thralls, Pressed down on heart and brain— These are the only horologues, The Age’s loss or gain. |
| And I am old in all of these, And wonder if I know The man begotten of the boy, Who loved that long ago. |
| A lilac bush close to the gate, A locust at the door, A low, wide window flower-filled, With ivy covered o’er. |
| A face—O love of childhood dreams, Lily in form and name— It comes back now in these day-dreams, The same yet not the same. |
| My childhood’s friend! Well gathered are The sheaves of many days, But this one sheaf is garnered in, Bound by my love always. |
| Where have you wandered, child, since when Together merrily, We gathered cups of columbine By lazy Rapanee? |
| The green spears of the flagflower, Down by the old mill-race, Are weapons now for other hands, Who mimic warfare chase. |
| You were so tender, yet so strong, So gentle, yet so free, Your every word, whenever heard, Seemed wondrous wise to me. |
| You marvelled if the dead could hear Our steps, that passed at will Their low green houses in the elm- Crowned churchyard on the hill. |
| And I, whom your sweet childhood’s trust, Esteemed as most profound, Thought that they heard, as in a dream, The shadow of a sound. |
| We drew the long, rank grass away From tombstones mossy grown, To read the verses crude and quaint, And make the words our own. |
| One tottering marble, willow-spread, I well remember yet, With only this engraved thereon, “By Joseph to Jeanette.” |
| It held us wondering oft, as we Peeped through the pickets old: There was some mystery, we knew, Some history untold. |
| Well, better far those simple words, Where weeping phrase is not, Than burdened tablet, and the rest Forgetting and forgot. |
| And Lily Minden, do you lie In some forgotten grave, Where only strangers’ feet pass o’er Your temple’s architrave? |
| Or, by some hearthstone, have you learned The worst and best of life, And found sweet greetings in the name Of mother and of wife? |
| I cannot tell: I know you but As bee the clover bloom, That sips content, and straightway builds Its mansion and its tomb. |
| So took I in child-innocence, So build the House of Life, And in low tone to thee alone, As dead or maid or wife, |
| I sing this song, borne all along A space of wasted breath; And build me on from room to room Unto the House of Death, |
| Where portals swing forever in To weary pilgrim guest, And hearts that here were inly dear Shall find a Room of Rest. |