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LIFE'S HOLIDAYS.
"So never mind the daisies
That on the hillside die
To give me room, or rather
Give room for what was 'I.'
"I'll watch the crowd incoming,
Close hov'ring by the gate;
And there, O best beloved!
I'll sing, and praise, and wait."
LIFE'S HOLIDAYS.
HOW do they come?
With turbulent singing,
Joy-bells gayly ringing,
Clear bugle-note calling,
Sweet flower-rain falling,
And throbs of the drum?
When almanacs reckon,
And tell us, the morrow
Shall know not a sorrow,
That jollity reigning
Shall silence complaining,
And come when we beckon,
What then? Cometh gladness?
Nay—through rosy robing
Comes Memory probing,
