Do Not Because This Day I Have Grown Saturnine Imagine That Lost Love, Inseparable From My Thought Because I Have No Other Youth, Can Make Me Pine; For How Should I Forget The Wisdom That You Brought, The Comfort That You Made? Although My Wits Have Gone On A Fantastic Ride, My Horse'S Flanks Are Spurred By Childish Memories Of An Old Cross Pollexfen, And Of A Middleton, Whose Name You Never Heard, And Of A Red-Haired Yeats Whose Looks, Although He Died Before My Time, Seem Like A Vivid Memory. You Heard That Labouring Man Who Had Served My People. He Said Upon The Open Road, Near To The Sligo Quay -- No, No, Not Said, But Cried It Out -- "You Have Come Again, And Surely After Twenty Years It Was Time To Come." I Am Thinking Of A Child'S Vow Sworn In Vain Never To Leave That Valley His Fathers Called Their Home.