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.
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.
