Four springtimes lost: and in the fifth we stand, <br />here in this quiet hour of glory, still, <br />while o'er the bridal land <br />the westering sun dwells in untroubled gold, <br />a bridegroom proud of his permitted will, <br />whom grateful rapture suffers not be bold, <br />but tender now and bland <br />his amber locks and bended gaze are shed, <br />brimming, above the couch'd and happy clime: <br />all is content and ripe delight, full-fed. <br />And as your fingers brush my hand <br />so too the winning time <br />would charm me from regretful reverie <br />that keeps me somewhat sad, remembering — <br />not the old woodland days, for thou art near <br />and hold'st them safely hid <br />to rise and shine again, when waning skies shall bid — <br />but later dawns o' the year, away from thee <br />liv'd thro', even here, <br />and golden embraces of the light-hearted time <br />when I was sad at heart, remembering <br />the clear enchantments of our single year, <br />our woodland prime of love, its violet-budded vow, <br />receding ever now <br />farther and farther down the past, a gleam <br />that turns to softest pearl the luminous haze <br />drifting between in from the golden days <br />when I was sad at inmost heart, remembering <br />thee and the woodland season of bright laughter: — <br />so in my perverse and most loitering dream <br />(O fading, fading days!) <br />each season claims the homage due, long after <br />its glory has faded to an outcast thing.<br /><br />Christopher John Brennan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/four-springtimes-lost-and-in-the-fifth-we-stand/
