There is a shadow on our mirth,
Our sun is blotted out with rain,
And all our joys are little worth.
Yet oh, when life begins to wane,
And we must sail the doubtful firth,
How wild the longing to regain
The life of earth!
GOLDEN DREAM
Golden dream of summer morn,
By a well-remembered stream
In the land where I was born,
Golden dream!
Ripples, by the glancing beam
Lightly kissed in playful scorn,
Meadows moist with sunlit steam.
When I lift my eyelids worn
Like a fair mirage you seem,
In the winter dawn forlorn,
Golden dream!
TEARS
Mourn that which will not come again,
The joy, the strength of early years.
Bow down thy head, and let thy tears
Water the grave where hope lies slain.
For tears are like a summer rain,
To murmur in a mourner's ears,
To soften all the field of fears,
To moisten valleys parched with pain.
And though thy tears will not awake
What lies beneath of young or fair
And sleeps so sound it draws no breath,
Yet, watered thus, the sod may break
In flowers which sweeten all the air,
And fill with life the place of death.
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