Classic Poem

Our early years — our early years,
Recall them not again;
The memory of former joy,
The pang of former pain.

Where is our childhood? Where are they
The playmates of the heart,
Whose first sweet lesson was to love,
Whose second was to part?

The Dead are with the past; for them
How fruitless our despair!
Unkindness, anger, fondness, grief,
Alike are buried there.

Alas! such thoughts can only weep
The heart's most bitter rain:
Our early years — our early years,
Recall them not again.