The World’s Doing

ONE scarce would think that we can be the same
Who used, in those first childish Junes, to creep
With held breath through the underwood, and leap
Outside into the sun. Since this mine aim
Took me unto itself, the joy which came
Into my eyes at once sits hushed and deep;
Nor even the sorrow moans, but falls asleep
And has ill dreams. For you—your very name
Seems altered in mine ears, and cannot send
Heat through my heart, as in those days afar
Wherein we lived indeed with the real life.
Yet why should we feel shame, my dear sweet friend?
Are they most honoured who without a scar
Pace forth, all trim and fresh, from the splashed strife?