O! Well I Mind The Olden Time, The Sweet, Sweet Olden Time; When I Did Long For Eve All Day, And Watch'D Upon The New-Mown Grass The Shadows Slowly Eastward Pass, And O'Er The Meadows Glide Away, Till I Could Steal, With Heart Elate, Unto The Little Cottage-Gate, In The Sweet, Sweet Olden Time. O! Well I Mind The Olden Time, The Sweet, Sweet Olden Time; How All The Night I Long'D For Morn, And Bless'D The Thrush Whose Early Note The Silver Chords Of Silence Smote With Greetings To The Day New-Born; For Then Again, With Heart Elate, I Hoped To Meet Her At The Gate, In The Sweet, Sweet Olden Time. But Now Hath Pass'D The Olden Time, That Sweet, Sweet Olden Time; And There Is Neither Morn Nor Night That Bears A Freight Of Hopes And Fears, To Bless My Soul In Coming Years With Any Harvest Of Delight; For Never More, With Heart Elate, Can I Behold Her At The Gate, As In The Sweet, Sweet Olden Time. For The Sake Of That Dear Olden Time, That Sweet, Sweet Olden Time, I Look Forth Ever Sadly Still, And Hope The Time May Come Again, When Life Hath Borne Its Meed Of Pain, And Stoutly Struggled Up The Hill, When I Once More, With Heart Elate, May Meet Her At _Another_ Gate, Beyond The Blighting Breath Of Fate, That Chill'D The Sweet, Sweet Olden Time.