I sang that song on Sunday,
	To which an idle while,
I sang that song on Monday,
	As fittest to beguile:
I sang it as the year outwore,
	And the new slid in;
I thought not what might shape before
	Another would begin.

I sang that song in summer,
	All unforeknowingly,
To him as a new-comer
	From regions strange to me:
I sang it when in afteryears
	The shades stretched out,
And paths were faint; and flocking fears
	Brought cup-eyed care and doubt.

Sings he that song on Sundays
	In some dim land afar,
On Saturdays, or Mondays,
	As when the evening star
Glimpsed in upon his bending face,
	And my hanging hair,
And time untouched me with a trace
	Of soul-smart or despair?