But the harvest days are over, and asleep their merry men,
And I glean the ears of fantasy or Fate,
As I go a-drifting, drifting, till I find Eileen again
As I left her by the old farm gate.
[131]
]TO THOSE WHO LOVE US MOST.
Oh, fill the sparkling crystal up
A beaker to the brim!
We sing no lays of fulsome praise
Of white-lipped seraphim: