So life keeps coming and going.
—ALICE CARY.
Dear chance it were in some rough wood-god’s lair
·······
To sink o’erdrowsed, and dream that wild-flowers blew
Around my head and feet silently there,
Till spring’s glad choir adown the valley pealed
And violets trembled in the morning dew.
—EDWARD DOWDEN.
The sunbeams kiss askant the sombre hill,