Is this the world that was so young
And fresh and fair but yesterday?
To his fond mate a roundelay
From leafy boughs the robin sung,
Wild bees upon the clover swung,
And grove and field with bloom were gay.
Is this the world that was so young
And fresh and fair but yesterday? Sere leaves beneath our feet are flung,
Bare boughs against a sky of grey,
Hither and thither, sobbing, sway,
As if wild hands a spectre wrung.
Is this the world that was so young
And fresh and fair but yesterday?