The Long Days

YES! they are here again, the long, long days,
After the days of winter, pinched and white:
Soon, with a thousand minstrels comes the light,
Late, the sweet robin-haunted dusk delays.
But the long days that bring us back the flowers,
The sunshine, and the quiet-dripping rain,
And all the things we knew of spring, again,
The long days bring not the long-lost long hours.
The hours that now seem to have been each one
A summer in itself, a whole life’s bound,
Filled full of deathless joy — where, in his round,
Have these forever faded from the sun ?
The fret, the fever, the unrest endures,
But the time flies..... Oh, try, my little lad,
Coming so hot and play-worn, to be glad
And patient of the long hours that are yours !
W. D. Howells