OF THE DAYS GONE BY 



Still from the far-off pastures comes the bee, 



And swings all clay inside the hollyhock, 



Or steals her honey from the winged sweet-pea, 



Or the striped glory of the four-o'clock ; 



The pale sweet-william, ringed with pink and 



white, 



Grows yet within the damp shade of the wall ; 

 And there the primrose stands, that as the night 

 Begins to gather, and the clews to fall, 

 Flings wide to circling moths her twisted buds, 

 That shine like yellow moons with pale, cold 



glow, 



And all the air her heavy fragrance floods, 

 And gives largess to any winds that blow. 

 Here, in wann darkness of a night in June, 

 While rhythmic pulses of the factory's flame 

 Lighted with sudden flare of red the gloom, 

 And deepened long black shadows, children came 

 To watch the primrose blow! 



Silent they stood, 



Hand clasped in hand, in breathless hush around, 

 And saw her shyly doff her soft green hood 

 And blossom with a silken burst of sound ! 



Once more I listen for the trembling chime 

 From purple-throated Canterbury bell ; 

 For surely, in that far-off golden time, 

 Strange fragrant music from it softly fell. 

 Beneath the lilacs, in whose heart-shaped leaves 

 The dust has settled and white stains of mould, 

 The money-vine with clinging myrtle weaves 

 A thick dark carpet, starred with blue and gold. 



