Poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich / [by Thomas Bailey Aldrich] [electronic text]

BAYARD TAYLOR.

IN other years—lost youth's enchanted years, Seen now, and evermore, through blinding tears And empty longing for what may not be— The Desert gave him back to us; the Sea Yielded him up; the icy Norland strand Lured him not long, nor that soft German air He loved could keep him. Ever his own land Fettered his heart and brought him back again. What sounds are these of farewell and despair Blown by the winds across the wintry main! What unknown way is this that he has gone, Our Bayard, in such silence and alone? What new strange quest has tempted him once more To leave us? Vainly, standing by the shore, We strain our eyes. But patience!... when the soft Spring gales are blowing over Cedarcroft, Whitening the hawthorn; when the violets bloom Along the Brandywine, and overhead The sky is blue as Italy's—he will come! Ay, he will come! To us he is not dead.