Say, what shall be our sport today?

  There's nothing on earth, in sea, or air,

Too bright, too high, too wild, too gay

  For spirits like mine to dare!

'Tis like the returning bloom

  Of those days, alas, gone by,

When I loved, each hour—I scarce knew whom—

  And was blest—I scarce knew why.

Ay—those were days when life had wings,

  And flew, oh, flew so wild a height

That, like the lark which sunward springs,

  'Twas giddy with too much light.

And, tho' of some plumes bereft,

  With that sun, too, nearly set,

I've enough of light and wing still left

  For a few gay soarings yet.