While life was a fairy tale sung in rhyme,
When phantoms grim of a future day
Were hid in the mists of the far away;
When we carved for ourselves from our June daydreams
(Only yesterday now it seems),
Statues of greatness, Jim and I,
In the mystical realm of the By-and-By!
Off for a swim on an afternoon,—
The moments—why would they fly so soon!
At the gate stood mother, who never was strong: