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