Fell a beautiful, misty veil;
In one hand she held a basket of thorns,
In the other a mystical cup,
And she sighed, and she sadly shook her head
As she lifted her dark eyes up:
"I will go," she said, "but your cup is sweet
While mine is bitter to taste."
And gently within the jeweled hand
Her own tiny hand she placed;
And they moved away in the gray twilight,
By evening breezes fanned,
And sought for the world to which they were sent,
Two sisters, hand in hand.
They traversed life's pathways, year after year,
With a soft and noiseless tread,
One strewing her thorns all along the way
And the other her roses red.
They dwelt ofttimes with the great and high
And oft with the poor and the low,
And mingled with giddy revelry,
And with scenes of sorrow and woe;
And the infant's soft, peaceful slumbers
Were broken with smiles and tears;
The maiden trembled to see beyond
A mirage of hopes and fears;
And the matron marveled that roses and thorns
All life's winding pathway line;
And the aged sighed that the bitter and sweet
Were mixed in life's mingled wine;
And so they mused o'er their daily paths
The aged, and the young, and fair,
And theirs was only life's common lot,
A portion that all must share.
In one hand she held a basket of thorns,
In the other a mystical cup,
And she sighed, and she sadly shook her head
As she lifted her dark eyes up:
"I will go," she said, "but your cup is sweet
While mine is bitter to taste."
And gently within the jeweled hand
Her own tiny hand she placed;
And they moved away in the gray twilight,
By evening breezes fanned,
And sought for the world to which they were sent,
Two sisters, hand in hand.
They traversed life's pathways, year after year,
With a soft and noiseless tread,
One strewing her thorns all along the way
And the other her roses red.
They dwelt ofttimes with the great and high
And oft with the poor and the low,
And mingled with giddy revelry,
And with scenes of sorrow and woe;
And the infant's soft, peaceful slumbers
Were broken with smiles and tears;
The maiden trembled to see beyond
A mirage of hopes and fears;
And the matron marveled that roses and thorns
All life's winding pathway line;
And the aged sighed that the bitter and sweet
Were mixed in life's mingled wine;
And so they mused o'er their daily paths
The aged, and the young, and fair,
And theirs was only life's common lot,
A portion that all must share.
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