A winter in retirement

by Hannah Blaney Washburn

But nought have I to do with these sad tales

Of death; I love to think of those bright, happy days,

When, with a gay and happy troop of friends,

All happy, we patrolled the pleasant path

And rested on that Rock, and sang sweet songs

And laughed and talked, and wove gay wreaths of flowers.

How pleasant ’twas to watch the different shades

In the green foliage of the large, thick trees

Encircling the gray Rock, and mark the view

Of the rich landscape, stretching far and wide,