HOURS.
165
There was only a sound of weeping From watchers around a bed, But Rest to the weary spirit, Peace to the quiet Dead!
HOURS.
HEN the bright stars came out last night, And the dew lay on the flowers,I had a vision of delight,— A dream of bygone hours.Those hours that came and fled so fast, Of pleasure or of pain,As phantoms rose from out the past Before my eyes again.
With beating heart did I behold A train of joyous hours,Lit with the radiant light of old, And, smiling, crowned with flowers.
And some were hours of childish sorrow, A mimicry of pain,That through their tears looked for a morrow They knew must smile again.
Those hours of hope that longed for life, And wished their part begun,And ere the summons to the strife Dreamed that the field was won.
