Part 16 (2/2)

With autumn days remembrance comes Of golden glories fleeting; Of pleasures gone and sorrows come-- Of parting and of meeting.

Oh! summer days, why haunt us still?

Remembrance is a sorrow; And all the dreams we dream to-day Will fade upon the morrow.

Each life has some sweet summer-time, Some perfect day of beauty; When flowers of love and leaves of hope Are twined around each duty.

But oh! the autumn-time will come, Which fades each golden glory; And life, when we are old and gray, Seems but a sad, old story.

Winter Flowers.

The summer queen has many flowers To deck her sunny hair, And trailing gra.s.ses, pure and sweet, To scent the heavy air; And upward through the misty sky There is a glory too, Of floating clouds and rifts of gold And depths of smiling blue.

Yet winter, too, can boast a wealth Of flowers pure and white; A kingly crown of frosted gems-- A wreath of sparkling light; So bright and beautiful, indeed, It were a wondrous sight To see a world of fragile flowers Sprung up within a night.

And sometimes there are cast'es, too, Of glittering ice and snow, Piled high upon our window-panes 'Neath curtains hanging low; And they are like the castles fair Our day-dreams build for aye; A frozen mist that one warm breath May quickly drive away.

And yet, how beautiful they are, These flowers of our breath; That bloom when not a leaf is left To mourn the summer's death.

And oh! how wondrous are the things That G.o.d has given the earth; The day that brings to one a death Smiles on another's birth.

Snow-Flakes.

I wonder what they are, These pretty, wayward things, That o'er the gloomy earth The wind of heaven flings.

Each one a tiny star, And each a perfect gem; What magic in the art That thus has fas.h.i.+oned them.

What beauty in the flake That falls upon my hand; And yet this tiny thing My will cannot command.

No two are just alike, And yet they are the same; I wonder if my thought Could give to each a name.

Unlike the fragile flowers That love the sun's warm rays, These snow-flakes love the cold, And die on sunny days!

So dainty and so pure, How beautiful they are; And yet the slightest touch Their purity may mar.

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