 | A little book of tribune verse |  |
135
PARADISE.
Within each heart there lies apart
From all its cares and sorrows,
A paradise which knows no sighs,
A world of happy morrows;
A heaven of light, unknown to blight
Of winter, bleak and dreary,
Whose days are long and sweet with song,
Whose hours are never weary.
From all its cares and sorrows,
A paradise which knows no sighs,
A world of happy morrows;
A heaven of light, unknown to blight
Of winter, bleak and dreary,
Whose days are long and sweet with song,
Whose hours are never weary.
What matter though earth's pathways glow
No more with springtime gladness?
What if each June has flown too soon
And left a look of sadness?
No real love so true will prove,
No tones one half so tender,
No lips so pure as those which lure
The soul to visioned splendor.
No more with springtime gladness?
What if each June has flown too soon
And left a look of sadness?
No real love so true will prove,
No tones one half so tender,
No lips so pure as those which lure
The soul to visioned splendor.
November 27th, 1881.
| A little book of tribune verse | |