88
POEMS.
And dearest, may his hand, as on he flies,
Be gently laid on thy still laughing brow;
Sweeping no trace, save that of sorrow thence,
Leaving but lightly there its blighting touch,
Turning care from thee; and above all these,
Granting our Jove's fresh wreaths may yet bloom on,
Where they were twined in childhood's happy days,
Where they have clung so trustingly erewhile,
Where they will cling till our life's sun hath set.
R. A.
Be gently laid on thy still laughing brow;
Sweeping no trace, save that of sorrow thence,
Leaving but lightly there its blighting touch,
Turning care from thee; and above all these,
Granting our Jove's fresh wreaths may yet bloom on,
Where they were twined in childhood's happy days,
Where they have clung so trustingly erewhile,
Where they will cling till our life's sun hath set.
R. A.
THE HOLLY.
'Twas a holly all so lonely,
In a winter garden grew,
Never sunbeam on it resting
E'en a passing brightness threw;
Coldly sombre 'neath the gushing
Of the golden noonday light,
Dark and gloomy when 'twas shaded
By the coming hues of night.
In a winter garden grew,
Never sunbeam on it resting
E'en a passing brightness threw;
Coldly sombre 'neath the gushing
Of the golden noonday light,
Dark and gloomy when 'twas shaded
By the coming hues of night.
