The Sapling
WHEN I was but a sprig of May,
With wonders to command,
Above all else I loved most well
What none could understand;
And dear were things far-off—far-off, but nothing near at hand.
O, now it was the sunset isle
Beyond the weather-vane;
And now it was the chime I heard
From belfry-towers of Spain;
But never yet the little leaf that tapped my window-pane.
Heigh-ho, the wistful things unseen
That reach, as I did then,
To guess, and wear the heart of youth
With eager Why and When!
And never eye takes heed of them, in all the world of men.
With wonders to command,
Above all else I loved most well
What none could understand;
And dear were things far-off—far-off, but nothing near at hand.
O, now it was the sunset isle
Beyond the weather-vane;
And now it was the chime I heard
From belfry-towers of Spain;
But never yet the little leaf that tapped my window-pane.
Heigh-ho, the wistful things unseen
That reach, as I did then,
To guess, and wear the heart of youth
With eager Why and When!
And never eye takes heed of them, in all the world of men.
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