From the outskirts of the town
        Where of old the mile-stone stood.
    Now a stranger, looking down
    I behold the shadowy crown
        Of the dark and haunted wood.

    Is it changed, or am I changed?
        Ah! the oaks are fresh and green,
    But the friends with whom I ranged
    Through their thickets are estranged
        By the years that intervene.

    Bright as ever flows the sea,
        Bright as ever shines the sun,
    But alas! they seem to me
    Not the sun that used to be,
        Not the tides that used to run.


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