Friend of my youth, let us talk of old times; <br />Of the long lost golden hours. <br />When "Winter" meant only Christmas chimes, <br />And "Summer" wreaths of flowers. <br />Life has grown old, and cold, my friend, <br />And the winter now, means death. <br />And summer blossoms speak all too plain <br />Of the dear, dead forms beneath. <br /> <br />But let us talk of the past to-night; <br />And live it over again, <br />We will put the long years out of sight, <br />And dream we are young as then. <br />But you must not look at me, my friend, <br />And I must not look at you, <br />Or the furrowed brows, and silvered locks, <br />Will prove our dream untrue. <br /> <br />Let us sing of the summer, too sweet to last, <br />And yet too sweet to die. <br />Let us read tales, from the book of the past, <br />And talk of the days gone by. <br />We will turn our backs to the West, my friend, <br />And forget we are growing old. <br />The skies of the Present are dull, and gray, <br />But the Past's are blue, and gold. <br /> <br />The sun has passed over the noontide line <br />And is sinking down the West. <br />And of friends we knew in days Lang Syne, <br />Full half have gone to rest. <br />And the few that are left on earth, my friend <br />Are scattered far, and wide. <br />But you and I will talk of the days <br />Ere any roamed, or died. <br /> <br />Auburn ringlets, and hazel eyes <br />Blue eyes and tresses of gold. <br />Winds joy laden, and azure skies, <br />Belong to those days of old. <br />We will leave the Present's shores awhile <br />And float on the Past's smooth sea. <br />But I must not look at you, my friend, <br />And you must not look at me.<br /><br />Ella Wheeler Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/old-times/
