I walk the old familiar ways
Beside my native stream,
I think of half-forgotten days,
And as I think I dream.
O, early years when Hope was fair,
As any bride could be,
When all the blossom in her hair
I thought would bloom for me.
She stood beside me as I wrought
Within the four-foot way;
She walked beside me as I thought,
And toil was far away.
I heard her speak; no sweeter voice
Could touch a human ear;
I heard, and could not but rejoice,
It was so sweet to hear.
But weary years, long weary years,
Have come and fled since then;
And I have had my hopes and fears,
Within the streets of men.
The orange blossom, too, has shed
Its bloom upon the air,
The wreath that clasped her glowing head,
Is now no longer there.
Yet, walking in the old dear ways
This sunless summer day,
A sadness crowns those early days
I would not wish away.