To a Day

Shall I sing of the earth or of the sea? — 
Of bright-wing'd Mirth, that stays its hour, and flies, 
On fickle wings, to far-off, alien skies; 
Shall I praise these, O Day, and not praise thee 
That giv'st me rare, sweet gifts, — yea, was to me 
As sudden fire; a rapture for mine eyes. 
That made my roused, stung heart to swell and rise, 
Filling it with the joy of joys to be ? 

The year returns, but thee I see no more, — 
Gone as a man's first dream of goodness goes; 
But, where less joys are as forgotten things, 
When I draw near to the pale, shadow-shore, 
Be with me then, to fight against my foes; 
Kiss me, and guard me! hide me with thy wings.