Thou art not happy, dearest, thou!—
A shade has fallen on thy young years;
Thou art not happy: even now
Thine eyes are full of unshed tears.
And this our fate? My Life!—my "world!"—
Too late beloved—too rarely seen—
And we, as o'er Time's tide we're hurled,
Can only say "WE MIGHT HAVE BEEN!"
LIFE.
BY A. J. REQUIER.
In every life there is a stream
Whose waters flow,
Dark as the current of a dream,
And seem to throw
On cup and hall and summer beam
A sign of wo!
In every life there is a ray
That shineth still,
From noon to night and night to day,
Through every ill;
And serves to light our solemn way
Go where we will.
Oh, traveler! of that stream beware
Which cannot glow;
It floweth only where a snare
Is lying low,
To deal upon thee unaware
A fatal blow.
Oh, traveler! seek that gentle ray
Which constant gleams,
So beautiful that none can say
Like what it seems;
The star predestined on thy way
To throw its beams.