To a Day

Shall I sing of the earth or of the sea? —
Of bright-wing'd Mirth, that stays its hour, and flies,
On fickle wings, to far-off, alien skies;
Shall I praise these, O Day, and not praise thee
That giv'st me rare, sweet gifts, — yea, was to me
As sudden fire; a rapture for mine eyes,
That made my roused, stung heart to swell and rise,
Filling it with the joy of joys to be?

The year returns, but thee I see no more, —
Gone as a man's first dream of goodness goes;
But, where less joys are as forgotten things.
When I draw near to the pale, shadow-shore.
Be with me then, to fight against my foes;
Kiss me, and guard me! hide me with thy wings.