Often I think of the beautiful town 
     That is seated by the sea; 
Often in thought go up and down 
The pleasant streets of that dear old town, 
    And my youth comes back to me. 
        And a verse of a Lapland song 
        Is haunting my memory still: 
    "A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, 
    And catch, in sudden gleams, 
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, 
And islands that were the Hesperides 
    Of all my boyish dreams. 
        And the burden of that old song,
        It murmurs and whispers still: 
    "A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

I remember the black wharves and the slips, 
    And the sea-tides tossing free; 
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, 
And the beauty and mystery of the ships, 
    And the magic of the sea. 
        And the voice of that wayward song 
        Is singing and saying still: 
    "A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

I remember the bulwarks by the shore, 
    And the fort upon the hill; 
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, 
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, 
    And the bugle wild and shrill. 
        And the music of that old song 
        Throbs in my memory still: 
    "A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

 ... 

Strange to me now are the forms I meet 
    When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and sweet, 
And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street,
    As they balance up and down, 
        Are singing the beautiful song,
        Are sighing and whispering still: 
    "A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."