Though I hear beneath my study,
like a fluttering of wings,
The voices of my children
and the mother as she sings—
I feel no twinge of conscience
to deny me any theme
When Care has cast her anchor
In the harbor of a dream—
In fact, to speak in earnest,
I believe it adds a charm
To spice the good a trifle
with a little dust of harm,—
For I find an extra flavor
in Memory's mellow wine
That makes me drink the deeper
to that old sweetheart of mine.
O Childhood-days enchanted!
O the magic of the Spring!—
With all green boughs to blossom white,
and all bluebirds to sing!
When all the air, to toss and quaff,
made life a jubilee
And changed the children's song and
laugh to shrieks of ecstasy.
