 | Old Year Leaves |  |
18
WHAT ALL MAY DO.
Our past life must perish,Our future arise,
And oft what we cherish
Most speedily dies:—
There are griefs for whose changing
We helplessly long,
Though we feel our arranging
Is hopelessly wrong:—
But if we live rightly,
We have in our power
To gather up brightly,
From each fading hour,
A thought-woven treasure
Of justly-earned joy,
Whose bountiful measure
No grief can destroy.
| Old Year Leaves | |