 | Leaves of life |  |
143
THE MEADOWS OF LONG AGO.
Oh the sweet wide meadows, the elm-trees tall,
The lilac that grew by the southern wall,
The orchards white, and the gardens neat,
The may, the cowslips, the meadow-sweet,
The pale dog-roses in every hedge,
The narrow path, by the coppice edge,
The path we shall walk by, you and I,
When the white moon rises, by-and-by—
The path we shall walk by? No, ah no!
It leads through the meadows of long ago.
The lilac that grew by the southern wall,
The orchards white, and the gardens neat,
The may, the cowslips, the meadow-sweet,
The pale dog-roses in every hedge,
The narrow path, by the coppice edge,
The path we shall walk by, you and I,
When the white moon rises, by-and-by—
The path we shall walk by? No, ah no!
It leads through the meadows of long ago.
Our meadows! They've built a chapel there,
And a row of villas, yellow and bare;
And down the path where we used to go,
Stand squalid cottages, all in a row—
And the elms are gone—and our wood's green maze
Where do the lovers walk now-a-days?
Not through our meadows; the sordid years
Have built upon them—and all our tears
Will never teach the dead grass to grow
On the trampled meadows of long ago!
And a row of villas, yellow and bare;
And down the path where we used to go,
Stand squalid cottages, all in a row—
And the elms are gone—and our wood's green maze
Where do the lovers walk now-a-days?
144
Have built upon them—and all our tears
Will never teach the dead grass to grow
On the trampled meadows of long ago!
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