With mournful tone I hear thee say,
"Alas, another year hath sped!"
As if within that circlet lay
Life's garland dead.
Vain thought! Thy measure is not Time's;
Not thus yields life each glowing hue;
Fair fruit may fall—the tendril climbs,
And clasps anew.
Time hath mute landmarks of his own;
They are not such as man may raise;
Not his the rudely number'd stone
On life's broad ways.
The record measuring his speed
Is but a shadow softer spread—
A browner leaf—a broken reed,
Or mildew shed.
And if his footfall crush the flower,
How sweet the spicy perfume springs!
His mildew stain upon the tower
A glory brings.
Then let the murmuring voice be still,
The heart hold fast its treasure bright;
The hearth glows warm when sunbeams chill;
Life hath no night.
J. D.