When the first ripe blush of youth has vanished,
With its changing hue of hopes and fears;
When all memories of the past seem banished,
By the shadow of succeeding years:
When the loving heart, becoming colder,
Loses much of wonted faith and trust;
When, too, sorrow day by day grown older,
Half forgot lies trodden in the dust, —
How at such time will some little token,
Drawn by chance from some long-forgotten nook —
Mayhap but a flower all crushed and broken
Lying hid in some once-cherished book —
Stir again the icy heart to sadness,
Rouse once more the memories of the past,
Bringing mingled thoughts of grief and gladness,
Whispering of the haven found at last.
Till at length from past to present waking,
Once again peeps forth a hopeful beam;
As full oft the sun through dull clouds breaking
Tints the autumn lands with ruddy gleam.
