Page:Acadiensis Q2.djvu/143
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The Days That are Not.
The path still winds afar,
Where the wealth of daisies are,
And the tangled grasses bend beneath the breeze;
The swallows sail, and swing,
And the happy woodlands ring,
With melodies of bird-songs in the trees.
Where the wealth of daisies are,
And the tangled grasses bend beneath the breeze;
The swallows sail, and swing,
And the happy woodlands ring,
With melodies of bird-songs in the trees.
The flowery fields are fair,
And the bounding brook is there,
But the scene has lost its old, peculiar joys;
From the bending blue has fled
The splendor, that it shed,
When I used to go a-fishing with the boys.
And the bounding brook is there,
But the scene has lost its old, peculiar joys;
From the bending blue has fled
The splendor, that it shed,
When I used to go a-fishing with the boys.
The summer sun has lost
The glory that he tossed
On the waves that rippled 'round the bare brown feet;
And I sit and sadly dream
By the wayward-wending stream,
Where I wandered with the boys when life was sweet.
The glory that he tossed
On the waves that rippled 'round the bare brown feet;
And I sit and sadly dream
By the wayward-wending stream,
Where I wandered with the boys when life was sweet.
A sadness shrouds the heart,
And the floods of sorrow start,
When memory tells her tale of vanished days;
When the gray of gloaming falls
On the jewelled western walls,
And I walk again the old familiar ways.
And the floods of sorrow start,
When memory tells her tale of vanished days;
When the gray of gloaming falls
On the jewelled western walls,
And I walk again the old familiar ways.
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