Never yet was a springtime, Late though lingered the snow, That the sap stirred not at the whisper Of the south wind, sweet and low; Never yet was a springtime When the buds forgot to blow. Ever the wings of the summer Are folded under the mould; Life, that has known no dying, Is Love’s, to have and to hold, Till, sudden, the burgeoning Easter! The song! the green and the gold!
Each day, when the glow of sunset Fades in the western sky, And the wee ones, tired of playing, Go tripping lightly by, I steal away from my husband, Asleep in his easy-chair, And watch from the open door-way Their faces fresh and fair. Alone in the dear old homestead That once was...
Never yet was a springtime, Late though lingered the snow, That the sap stirred not at the whisper Of the south wind, sweet and low; Never yet was a springtime When the buds forgot to blow. Ever the wings of the summer Are folded under the mould; Life, that has known no dying, Is Love’...
His fourscore years and five Are gone, like a tale that is told. The quick tears start, there ’s an ache at the heart, For we never thought him old. Straight as a mountain pine, With the mountain eagle’s eye, With the hand-clasp strong, and the unhushed song, Was it time for him to die?...
