Yon lofty hills, dear lingering youth,
when we climbed life's sisyphean slope,
amid tumbling rocks, yet struggled on in hope,
now, backward glance on labours oft uncouth,
each blind day, we, green faith applied
upon the anvil of life's harsh forged sway,
each and every aching limb, relentlessly applied
the burning coals, to fire destiny's unspoken play,
to climb the summits unattainable spoils,
such salad days, inspired by trackless spheres aloft,
passion filed, like as when, both lover and artist toils,
flew on wings when life was green and soft,

yet, despite the woes and destiny our present foe,
we sallied forth to Autumn's coloured glow.