THIS sheaf that I have bound, of mingled grain,
Beneath the noon to give a spot of shade,
Where might we sit and mark, before they fade,
The fleeting lights across life’s dappled plain;
Ere with its treasured had Time’s rolling wain—
Piled up with memories, and thoughts unsaid,
With hopes and fears in trembling leaf and blade—
Turns sun-ward, where the harvest-home is made.
Perchance the tangled stems some flowers enfold,
Not all unmeet the brows of her to wreath,