  We were "seven in all," as the dear rustic maid To the poet so sweetly protested; And together we rambled and studied and played, Each imbibing a share of the sunshine and shade Wherewith our young life was invested. And black eyes and blue eyes and brown eyes and gray Looked up to the face of our mother, As she led us in study in labor or play, Or told of "Our Father," and taught us to pray, And to cherish and love one another. O, the rapture of being when life is a-tune With the song-life and beauty of morning; When the roseate dawn brightens into the noon, And the year hastens on to the splendor of June, In her fragrance and matchless adorning. So our years flitted by and the youngest of all— Our dark-eyed and fun-loving brother— Was grown to be manly and lithesome and tall, And to couteous titles we answered the call, But were still "boys" and "girls" to each other. O, the joy of endeavor, endurance and toil On thro' summer-time vigor and sweetness, Of triumph o'er that which would hinder or foil, Of the patience of hope after tears and turmoil, In the glory of autumn's completeness. And the toil and the turmoil and tears have been ours— We've encountered the thorns, but we've cherished the flowers; We've passed under the clouds on to sunnier hours, And we're still "boys" and "girls" to each other. |
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