pointment, sigh, and smile commingled, now hope sits
dove-like.
To preserve a long course of years still and uniform, [15]
amid the uniform darkness of storm and cloud and
tempest, requires strength from above,—deep draughts
from the fount of divine Love. Truly may it be said:
There is an old age of the heart, and a youth that never
grows old; a Love that is a boy, and a Psyche who is [20]
ever a girl. The fleeting freshness of youth, however,
is not the evergreen of Soul; the coloring glory of