A REVERIE.
I am thinking to night of the sweet long ago,
Of my childhood, so happy and free,
Of the dear faces lying low under the mold,
Though weary and heart-sick are we;
We toilers, left to glean in the fields,
Of ambition, hatred and strife,
We glean, and we gather, and store, away care,
And flee all the glory of life.
Of my childhood, so happy and free,
Of the dear faces lying low under the mold,
Though weary and heart-sick are we;
We toilers, left to glean in the fields,
Of ambition, hatred and strife,
We glean, and we gather, and store, away care,
And flee all the glory of life.
We barter the God-given blessing of Peace,
For the glittering dross of the world;
We turn from the white-spired temple of Truth,
Where she dwells with her banner unfurled.
For the glittering dross of the world;
We turn from the white-spired temple of Truth,
Where she dwells with her banner unfurled.
