230 OF THE DAYS GONE BY 



I remember, I remember 



Where I was used to swing, 



And thought the air must rush as fresh 



To swallows on the wing ; 



My spirit flew in feathers then 



That is so heavy now, 



And summer pools could hardly cool 



The fever on my brow. 



I remember, I remember 



The fir trees dark and high ; 



I used to think their slender tops 



Were close against the sky : 



It was a childish ignorance, 



But now 'tis little joy 



To know I'm farther off from Heaven, 



Than when I was a boy. 



THOMAS HOOD. 



THE OLD GARDEN 



CLOSED on three sides by crumbling walls of brick, 

 All spotted by slow-creeping lichen stains, 

 And nearly hid by ivy, matted thick, 

 And dim with clinging mists of years of rains, 

 The garden lies. 



When all outside is vexed by summer rains, 

 Whose dash and rush will bend the stateliest rose, 

 And blur the street with dull and tearful stains, 

 The freshened garden but the brighter glows ; 



