Classic Poem

Say , what shall be our sport to-day?
There's nothing on earth, in sea, or air,
Too bright, too high, too wild, too gay
For spirits like mine to dare!
'T is 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,
'T was 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.