And — "Merry, merry, merry!"
Rang the bells of every hour,
And — "Happy, happy, happy!"
In her valley laughed the flower.
There was not a sign of shadow,
There was not a tear nor thorn,
And the sweet voice of her laughter
Filled with melody the morn.
* * * * *
Years passed — 'twas long, long after,
And I saw a face at prayer;
There was not a sign of laughter,
There was every sign of care.
For the sunshine all had faded
From the valley and the flower,
And the once fair face was shaded
In life's lonely evening hour.
And the lips that smiled with laughter
In the valley of the morn,
In the valley of the evening
They were pale and sorrow-worn.
And I read the old, old lesson
In her face and in her tears,
While she sighed amid the shadows
Of the sunset of her years.
All the rippling streams of laughter
From our hearts and lips that flow,
Shall be frozen, cold years after,
Into icicles of woe.
In Memory of My Brother
Young as the youngest who donned the Gray,
True as the truest that wore it,
Brave as the bravest he marched away,
(Hot tears on the cheeks of his mother lay)
Triumphant waved our flag one day —
He fell in the front before it.