. . . . . . .
I said—when I was calm again,
And thoughtfully once more
Had dwelt upon my mother's words
Of just the day before,—
"I DON'T look like my father,
As you told me yesterday—
I know I don't—or father
Would have run the other way."
THE OLD TIMES WERE THE BEST
Friends, my heart is half aweary
Of its happiness to-night:
Though your songs are gay and cheery,
And your spirits feather-light,
There's a ghostly music haunting
Still the heart of every guest
And a voiceless chorus chanting
That the Old Times were the best.
CHORUS
All about is bright and pleasant
With the sound of song and jest,
Yet a feeling's ever present
That the Old Times were the best.
A SUMMER AFTERNOON
A languid atmosphere, a lazy breeze,
With labored respiration, moves the wheat
From distant reaches, till the golden seas
Break in crisp whispers at my feet.
My book, neglected of an idle mind,
Hides for a moment from the eyes of men;
Or lightly opened by a critic wind,
Affrightedly reviews itself again.