There was a time when meadow, grove and stream
the earth and every common sight, to me
did seem appareled in celestial light.
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore.
Turn whereso'er I may
by night or day
the things which I have seen 
I now can see no more.
But there's a tree, of many, one.
A single field which I have looked upon.
Both of them speak of something that is gone.
The pansy at my feet doth the same tale repeat.
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory an the dream?