Yes, dear departed, cherished days,
Could Memoryââ?¬â?¢s hand restore
Your morning light, your evening rays,
From Timeââ?¬â?¢s gray urn once more,
Then might this restless heart be still,
This straining eye might close,
And Hope her fainting pinions fold,
While the fair phantoms rose.

But, like a child in oceanââ?¬â?¢s arms,
We strive against the stream,
Each moment farther from the shore
Where lifeââ?¬â?¢s young fountains gleam;
Each moment fainter wave the fields,
And wider rolls the sea;
The mist grows dark,ââ?¬â?à?­the sun goes down,ââ?¬â?à?­
Day breaks,ââ?¬â?à?­and where are we?