O Years!

O YEARS, years, years !
Would ye were rolled away.
And I, 'mid April smiles and tears.
With my true love at play.
O years, years, years.
Who were all one May !
Ah I the fragrant pine,
The fountain's pure, low bubble ;
Flowers fondle her feet and mine ;
Air-and-bird-wings trouble
Lightly light young leaves
Of our enchanted wood,
While the season weaves
Around our vernal mood
A beautiful silk sheath
Of sight and scent and sound,
Where we lie warm and breathe.
Softly folded round.
And our young pulses bound.

O years, years, years !
That have nor warmth nor sun.
And little else that cheers,
We are drifting on
With other things that were
Rose-red once and fair.
O years, years, years !
Drooping bowed to earth
With sorrows, wrongs, and fears,
Radiant your birth,
All one morning-mirth !
Now feeble, faint, in tears,
Wings low trailed in dust,
On your mail the rust,
Years, years, years !