 | A Child of the People |  |
58
“WHERE TWO YEARS MEET.”
A moment here the storm of battle stands,
Then westward rolls away;
We wait with wistful eyes and clinging hands
What comes with the new day.
Then westward rolls away;
We wait with wistful eyes and clinging hands
What comes with the new day.
Dead year, that taught at least our hands to cling,—
Flown hours wherein we met,
Though Time stood now at everlasting Spring,
Still would we not forget.
Flown hours wherein we met,
Though Time stood now at everlasting Spring,
Still would we not forget.
Thine eyes were stars of promise, but thine arm
Thrust ever sharp between;
Dreaming of all to be, still holds the charm
Of all that might have been.
Thrust ever sharp between;
Dreaming of all to be, still holds the charm
Of all that might have been.
We say farewell, half-souled 'twixt hope and fear;
More yet the years may give;
Not all fair days are bound in one dead year
For us, who have lives to live!
More yet the years may give;
Not all fair days are bound in one dead year
For us, who have lives to live!
59
“Who shall not mourn the fair day almost done,
He cannot live again,
Knowing how oft is lost Life's mid-day sun
Behind a haze of rain?
But though the last leaf dies on my live spray,
Though dulls Heaven's dazzling cope,
Yet let your death-song crystal round the ray
Of some immortal hope!”
He cannot live again,
Knowing how oft is lost Life's mid-day sun
Behind a haze of rain?
But though the last leaf dies on my live spray,
Though dulls Heaven's dazzling cope,
Yet let your death-song crystal round the ray
Of some immortal hope!”
| A Child of the People | |