O happy years! that pass and will not stay,

I con you o’er—as one might that doth clasp

A string of limpid pearls in her fond grasp—

At loss to choose which gleams with purest ray.

Or like a child within a garden fair,

That—passing swiftly on from flow’r to flow’r

Leaves each frail beauty in its wind swayed bow’r

For fear she will not pluck the fairest there.

So ’tis with me, in noting o’er my years—

I scarce can choose one out from all the rest,

And smiling say—this one was happiest.

So rich I’ve been in joy—so poor in tears.

Oh! may the sweetness of Time measured, be

Of Time un-measured—a sweet prophecy.