II.

Those were thy days, blithe spirit, those When a June sunshine could fill up The chalice of a buttercup With such Falernian juice as flows No longer,--for the vine is dead Whence that inspiring drop was shed: Days when my blood would leap and run, As full of morning as a breeze, Or spray tossed up by summer seas That doubts if it be sea or sun; Days that flew swiftly, like the band That in the Grecian games had strife And passed from eager hand to hand The onward-dancing torch of life.