&nbsp       &nbsp Yes; such it was;
       &nbsp Just those two seasons unsought,
Sweeping like summertide wind on our ways;
       &nbsp       &nbsp Moving, as straws,
       &nbsp Hearts quick as ours in those days;
Going like wind, too, and rated as nought
       &nbsp Save as the prelude to plays
       &nbsp Soon to come - larger, life-fraught:
       &nbsp       &nbsp Yes; such it was.

       &nbsp       &nbsp “Nought” it was called,
       &nbsp Even by ourselves - that which springs
Out of the years for all flesh, first or last,
       &nbsp       &nbsp Commonplace, scrawled
       &nbsp Dully on days that go past.
Yet, all the while, it upbore us like wings
       &nbsp Even in hours overcast:
       &nbsp Aye, though this best thing of things,
       &nbsp       &nbsp “Nought” it was called!

       &nbsp       &nbsp What seems it now?
       &nbsp Lost: such beginning was all;
Nothing came after: romance straight forsook
       &nbsp       &nbsp Quickly somehow
       &nbsp Life when we sped from our nook,
Primed for new scenes with designs smart and tall . . .
       &nbsp - A preface without any book,
       &nbsp A trumpet uplipped, but no call;
       &nbsp       &nbsp That seems it now.