That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.
Ah, words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away.
Some things you can never get back.
That is how it stiffens, my vision of that seaside childhood. My father died; we moved inland. Whereon those nine first years of my life sealed themselves off like a ship in a bottle - beautiful, inaccessible, obsolete: a fine, white, flying myth.
For tyme y-lost may not recovered be.
What was lost was lost. There was no retrieving it, however you schemed, no returning to how things were, no going back.
For tyme ylost may nought recovered be.
