I

We have forgot what we have been,
And what we are we little know;
We fancy new events begin,
But all has happened long ago.

II

Through many a verse life's poem flows,
But still, though seldom marked by men,
At times returns the constant close;
Still the old chorus comes again.

III

The childish grief, the boyish fear,
The hope in manhood's breast that burns,
The doubt, the transport, and the tear,
Each mood, each impulse, oft returns.

IV

Before mine infant eyes had hailed
The new-born glory of the day,
When the first wondrous morn unveiled
The breathing world that round me lay,

V

The same strange darkness o'er my brain
Folded its close, mysterious wings,
The ignorance of joy or pain
That each recurring midnight brings.

VI

And oft my feelings make me start,
Like footprints on some desert shore,
As if the chambers of my heart
Had heard their shadowy step before.

VII

So, looking into thy fond eyes,
Strange memories come to me, as though
Somewhere — perchance in Paradise —
I had adored thee long ago.