Departed Days

by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Yes, dear departed, cherished days,
Could Memory's hand restore
Your Morning light, your evening rays
From Time'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 ocean's arms,
We strive against the stream,
Each moment farther from the shore
Where life's young fountains gleam; --
Each moment fainter wave the fields,
And wider rolls the sea;
The mist grows dark, -- the sun goes down. --
Day breaks, -- and where are we?