And the props, on which our hearts depended,
All have failed, or broken, one by one;
Evening and our sorrow’s shadow blended,
Telling us that peace has now begun.
How far back will seem the sun’s first dawning,
And those early mists so cold and gray!
Half forgotten even the toil of morning,
And the heat and burden of the day.
Flowers that we were tending, and weeds scorning,
All alike, withered and cast away.