Waves of Thought.
93
Hope's pale blossom lifts her fragrance, Breathing from the changeful past;Perchance the waves of time may bear it To blossom at my feet at last.
Like a necklace, lost, forgotten— All the shining beads unstrung,I, the well-worn thread would gather, Gently string my joys along.
Childhood, once so gay, so joyous, Full of life, from sorrow free,Like a sweet and spring-like morning, Poured forth freshest melody.
Now grave pictures shaded deeper, Swift before my fancy spring;And I hear an unseen footstep, And I feel an angel's wing.
Then I see a meek pale vision Of a loved one from us borne,Whose mild face is ever near me, And whose loss I ever mourn.
