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MY BIRTHDAY.
And will I pass through harvest time out in the wintry gale,Or shall I sooner lie with those who sleep within the vale?God knows—for many of my time Death's sickle has laid low,While few indeed are spared to meet the winter's falling snow.My gaze along life's retrospect its anxious searching sends,To find but vacant places now, where stood my early friends.
My childhood and my youth are gone; it matters little nowIf thorns or roses lingered once upon my maiden brow,—'T is many varied years since I my girlhood laid aside,To give my hand to one I loved—a happy, trusting bride.Now, as I write my passing thoughts, I hear the entry doorThrown open, and two little heels come ringing on the floor;
