And sees, in everything it meets, the features of a friend.
“To-day” is full of rosy joy, “to-morrow” is not here:
When, for an uncreated hour, was childhood known to fear?
Not until hopes, warm hopes, its heart a treasure-house have made,
Like summer flowers to bloom awhile, like them, alas, to fade;
Cherished too fondly and too long, for ah! the rich parterre,
Crushed in its brightest blossoming, leaves but a desert there.
This is life’s second stage; the gloss of springtime has passed o’er,
The trusting bosom is deceived, but still it trusts the more;
Its young affections are bound up within a mother’s love,