Chapter XXVII—The Memories Of Home.[2]
"The home of my youth stands in silence and sadness:
None that tasted its simple enjoyments are there,
No longer its walls ring with glee and with gladness
No strain of blithe melody breaks on the ear.
* * * * *
"Why, memory, cling thus to life’s jocund morning?
Why point to its treasures exhausted too soon?
Or tell that the buds of the heart at the dawning,