The summer is just in its grandest prime,
The earth is green and the skies are blue;
But where is the lilt of the olden time,
When life was a melody set to rhyme,
And dreams were so real they all seemed true?
There is sun on the meadow, and blooms on the bushes,
And never a bird but is mad with glee;
But the pulse that bounds, and the blood that rushes,
And the hope that soars, and the joy that gushes,
Are lost for ever to you and me.
There are dawns of amber and amethyst;
There are purple mountains, and pale pink seas
That flush to crimson where skies have kist;
But out of life there is something missed--
Something better than all of these.
We miss the faces we used to know,
The smiling lips and the eyes of truth.
We miss the beauty and warmth and glow
Of the love that brightened our long ago,
And ah! we miss our youth.
Yesterdays. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
London: Gay & Hancock, 1916.
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