Morning was in its freshness still,
Noon yet far off with all its stir,
Cool early shade, calm leisure fill
The silent hall and summer room.
Two hours I yet may number ere
Full glaring day brings tumult near
And lets intensive labour, care,
Disturb my humble home.

Two hours! — how shall they speed with me,
In measured task, toil self-assigned?
No, eager claim for liberty
Some sense now urges in my mind
Through Fancy's realm of imagery
Some strange delight in ranging free;
Some joy that will not prisoned be,
Brisk as the western wind.

It hurries back and brings the Past
Sweetly before my soul;
It wings its way like rapid blast
To the far Future's goal.
Pleasant the thoughts its pinions chase,
And bright though vague the dreamy place
Where tends its winged and ardent race
Farther than Ocean's roll.

Each pleasant passage in my life
I now live o'er again.
I pass the weary hours of strife,
Forget the scenes of pain.
What scorn has said and Hate has done
Oblivion's veil lies dimly on,
And tears by Woe from Weakness won
Remembrance cease to stain.

But every gift by Joy bestowed
I count in numbers true;
And every hour that smoothly flowed
This hour does well renew;
And if Love's whisper ever yet
My ear like note of music met,
This summer wind seems to repeat
The tones with cadence due.

'Tis bitter sometimes to recall
Illusions once deemed fair,
But in this golden moment all
Doth fairy gilding wear;
And fond and fast the pulses beat
Departed Passion's shade to greet
Rising in transient vision sweet
To colour empty air.