poems.
91
Her spirit early plumed its flight.
To find its rest with God.
But this life is all transition,
And I've left my childish play,
And my hair is streaked with silver,
For I'm old! I'm old to-day."
To find its rest with God.
But this life is all transition,
And I've left my childish play,
And my hair is streaked with silver,
For I'm old! I'm old to-day."
Thus the old man murmured softly,
In a voice both low and deep,
And listening to the moaning willows,
He gently, calmly, fell asleep.
And once more he was a child,
Like the happy one of yore,
Still dancing on the village green,
Where oft he'd danced before.
In a voice both low and deep,
And listening to the moaning willows,
He gently, calmly, fell asleep.
And once more he was a child,
Like the happy one of yore,
Still dancing on the village green,
Where oft he'd danced before.
His playmates' shouts rang sharp and clear,
But his the loudest seemed;
They roamed again the meadow brook,
Near where the sunlight gleamed.
A form seemed walking close beside,
A voice spoke low and sweet,
And holding still a little hand,
Came the pattering little feet.
But his the loudest seemed;
They roamed again the meadow brook,
Near where the sunlight gleamed.
A form seemed walking close beside,
A voice spoke low and sweet,
And holding still a little hand,
Came the pattering little feet.
