To W. F. B.

On kis birthday Aug. ihth, 1S80. The golden sun shincs now as bright O'er woodland, hill and lee, As long ago in southern cliinc It shone for you and me. The mocking bird's shrill note rang out Krom cool and sheltered gladc. And through the branches overhead The changing sunlight plnyed, iïow swect the charm of that dcar spot, The old town left behind, While insect hum and bees' soft drone Carne rloatinp on the wind. Now years have winged their ceaiclcss fliylit, Vet Hfe ïs wnat It seems, And I set here alone tonight And dream the olden dreanis. I'm surc when'er in all these years I've wounded by word or deed, The love you gave me so long ago For the erring one must plead. Thcre tre spots of joy, and traces of tws By a path we trove not to tread, For it led ín anguish and bitterness To a place among the dead. Sweetbeds of flowers, a ffew wild thorns Along our way have erown, ¦ Itnt through the rift ordarkeaing clouds, The hciuin sun has shonc. N'ow, what if my hands somc day grow weak, And my feet refuse to go? And I linger beside the mystic stream Where the silent waters ilow ? I wonder if life would seem as drer,. r . And its joys would bc as few, As they would to me were you away And I was naugfat to you. Adown the distant slopc of years, Which may be left ns here, The light of love, God's blessed gift, Shioes wonderous bright and clcar.