  When our eyes grow dim and our hair turns grey And we sit by the fire together, ’Twill seem strange to talk in a shivering way Of our Summertime’s rosy weather; When our eyes were bright, and our tresses smooth, And the blood in our veins leapt red, In the golden dawn of our long lost youth, With the promise of life ahead. Shall we talk with smiles or with sighs that day Of the years that are dead and gone, Of the cares and the joys that have passed away Like dewdrops beneath the sun? Nay, perchance we’ll see but the sunny side Of the vision, in looking back, And the trace of joys that are past may abide, Where our sorrow have left no track; And perhaps both the joys and the cares may seem In the light of that later day, Like the phantom shapes of some beautiful dream That has long ago passed away. But whate’er beside we may lose or hold From the hoards of the golden past, May the friends we loved in the days of old To our hearts and thoughts cling fast, And before the days come that are coming soon, And whose motto is “I remember,” God grant us one vision of love and June To brighten our life’s December. October 7th, 1878. [Decorative image unavailable.] |
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