And wherefore left I these fair, flowery fields,
Where her fond eyes and ever gladsome voice
Made all the year one joyous, warbling June,
To chase my castles in the passing clouds—­
False as the mirage of some Indian isle
To shipwrecked sailors famished on the brine? 
Wherefore?—­Look out upon the babbling world—­
Fools clamoring at the heels of clamorous fools! 
I hungered for the sapless husks of fame. 
Dreaming I saw, beyond my native hills,
The sunshine shimmer on the laurel trees. 
Ah tenderly plead her fond eyes brimmed with tears;
But lightly laughing at her fears I turned,
Eager to clutch my crown of laurel leaves,
Strong-souled and bold to front all winds of heaven—­
A lamb and lion molded into one—­
And burst away to tread the hollow world. 
Ah nut-brown boys that tend the lowing kine,
Ah blithesome plowmen whistling on the glebe,
Ah merry mowers singing in the swaths,
Sweet, simple souls, contented not to know,
Wiser are ye and ye may teach the wise.

Years trode upon the heels of flying years,
And still my Ignis Fatuus flew before;
On thorny paths my eager feet pursued,
Till she whose fond heart doted on my dreams
Passed painless to the pure eternal peace. 
Years trode upon the heels of flying years
And touched my brown beard with their silver wands,
And still my Ignis Fatuus flew before;
Through thorns and mire my torn feet followed still,
Till she, my darling, unforgotten Flore,
Nursing her one hope all those weary years
Waiting my tardy coming, drooped and died. 
I hear her low, sweet voice among the pines: 
O let me dream the dreams of long ago: 
I see her fond eyes peeping from the pines: 
O let me dream the dreams of long ago
And hide my bronzed face in her golden hair.

Is this the Indian summer of my days—­
Wealth without care and love without desire? 
O misty, cheerless moon of falling leaves! 
Is this the fruitage promised by the spring? 
O blighted clusters withering on the vine! 
O promised lips of love to one who dreams
And wakens holding but the hollow air!

Let me dream on lest, dead unto my dead,
False to the true and true unto the false,
Maddened by thoughts of that which might have been,
And weary of the chains of that which is,
I slake my heart-thirst at forbidden springs. 
I hear the voices of the moaning pines;
I hear the low, hushed whispers of the dead,
And one wan face looks in upon my dreams
And wounds me with her sad, imploring eyes.