And may the days as days go by,
Still richer seem and sweeter,
And passing seasons make your lives
In every good completer.
There are not words to tell the love
In which I could caress you;
Your dear united names I breathe,
And once more pray, God bless you.
[TO ANNA]
ON HER SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY
Sixteen! and life to thee looks bright and fair;—
A book unread, rose-tinted, golden edged,
Encased in binding curious, costly, rare;—
And all the years to be thou holdest pledged
To give thee from its pages, day by day,
Readings to cheer and bless the blithesome way.
And life is such a volume, only thou,
From garnered storage of the heart and mind,
Must fill unwritten pages, and allow
Fair pictures—of pure thought, of self resigned,
Of kindly deeds—each new-made page to grace;—
How blest if none thou, later, woulds't efface!
Sixteen! A May-day in the path of life,
A marvelous puzzle on the finger twirled;
Sixteen again; a stir of earnest strife
And toil and tumult in a restless world;
Repeated still,—a patient, steadfast hold
On good attained,—ripe fruit, and grain of gold.
Sixteen once more! Serene in shade or sun,
A brighter outlook now; existence grand!
Content in hopes fulfilled, in victories won,
Mingling with holier yearnings for that land,
Whose o'er-flown radiance and whose surplus bliss
Have been the glory and the joy of this.