 | Poems Old and New by Charles D. Bell |  |
183
SONNET.
THE SAME.
No sound save tremulous music of the sea,Came swelling up the glades and meadows fair,
Borne to our ears across the upland lea,
Green with the rippling wheat, and where
The thymy fragrance lured the yellow bee
To revel oft in hours of sweetness there;
The happy thief! with none to cry, “Forbear!”
Gone those dear days, forgot they cannot be.
Our life was in its fair and golden prime,
And from all things bright augury we drew;
Our joys were many, and our sorrows few;
Bravely we looked into the coming time,
The silver hours held hope in every chime,
And not a fear, of what might be, we knew.
| Poems Old and New by Charles D. Bell | |