I remember thee in my youth,
When our hands were still soft and dimpled---and the contact of them;
And the bright painted bits with which we played and the agony of breaking them,
And the woe of darkness and the mysteries of the little path that led past the hill,
Where the tall grass swayed and the shrub-wood frowned like a monstrous forest.
I remember the tinkling silver of your laugh,
Like the breaking of a prismatic crystal of ice which hung some height,
Spraying out upon the crusted snow, coldly, yet warmly;
And the innocence of your empty eyes, awaiting earth's filling;
And the quick twitching smile which was forever crowding in upon your lips.
I remember you then, my playfellow,
And I cannot forget you, even in the somber man who with intricate words argues with me;
Even amid your learning I hear the tinkling laughter of the boy,
And the little things that filled the day will not depart.
Oh come, come back with me!
Let us forget all---
Save the little path and the woods and your laughter and mine; for after all---
What new thing have we learned?