I bring you all my happy days,—
Armfuls of flowers—oh,
I love you as the sunlight stays
On mountains heaped with snow:
And where the dearest dream-buds lie,
With tears and dew-drops wet,
I toss to-day; for you and I
Over the world are met!
Benjamin R. C. Low [1880-
TO ARCADY
Across the hills of Arcady
Into the Land of Song—
Ah, dear, if you will go with me
The way will not be long!
It will not lead through solitudes
Of wind-blown woods or sea;
Dear, no! the city's weariest moods
May scarce veil Arcady.
'Tis in no unfamiliar land
Lit by some distant star.
No! Arcady is where you stand,
And Song is where you are!
So walk but hand in hand with me—
No road can lead us wrong;
These are the hills of Arcady—
Here is the Land of Song!
Charles Buxton Going [1863-