MEMORIES
What is it most that the soul remembersIn the long years that come afterwhiles?What are the thoughts of the long DecembersWhen white and empty lie snowy miles?What is the picture that grows and smilesDeep in the heart of the glowing embers?We dream no dream of the passing pleasuresThat held us thralls in an idle hour,We count no riches in heaping measuresNor pulse again with a futile power—Nay, a verdant tree or a crimson flowerIs the jewel then that the memory treasures.Oh, these are the visions that come long afterWhen face to face with our own sad soul;We see a tree in the smoky rafter,Behold a rose in the glowing coal;The months of Wintertime backward rollAnd the room is filled with the ghost of laughter.For here is the tree that we knew togetherWhen the ending year was a Springtime young;The northman’s pine and the Scotsman’s heather,The Briton’s oak where the children swung—Oh, these are the things by the night-wind sungAbove the roar of the wintry weather.For all the year is a time of cloverWhile Memory sits by the ingleside,And Home goes forth with the world-wide roverTo ev’ry country o’er ev’ry tide;And when the Autumn has drooped and diedWe live our Summers, our Summers, over.Life has its seasons and life its sorrows,When the soul sits dreaming a dream like this,When the hungry heart from the pale past borrowsA silenced voice or an ended kiss—Yea, in our sorrow we find our bliss,And weave of Yesterdays our To-morrows.
What is it most that the soul remembersIn the long years that come afterwhiles?What are the thoughts of the long DecembersWhen white and empty lie snowy miles?What is the picture that grows and smilesDeep in the heart of the glowing embers?We dream no dream of the passing pleasuresThat held us thralls in an idle hour,We count no riches in heaping measuresNor pulse again with a futile power—Nay, a verdant tree or a crimson flowerIs the jewel then that the memory treasures.Oh, these are the visions that come long afterWhen face to face with our own sad soul;We see a tree in the smoky rafter,Behold a rose in the glowing coal;The months of Wintertime backward rollAnd the room is filled with the ghost of laughter.For here is the tree that we knew togetherWhen the ending year was a Springtime young;The northman’s pine and the Scotsman’s heather,The Briton’s oak where the children swung—Oh, these are the things by the night-wind sungAbove the roar of the wintry weather.For all the year is a time of cloverWhile Memory sits by the ingleside,And Home goes forth with the world-wide roverTo ev’ry country o’er ev’ry tide;And when the Autumn has drooped and diedWe live our Summers, our Summers, over.Life has its seasons and life its sorrows,When the soul sits dreaming a dream like this,When the hungry heart from the pale past borrowsA silenced voice or an ended kiss—Yea, in our sorrow we find our bliss,And weave of Yesterdays our To-morrows.
What is it most that the soul remembersIn the long years that come afterwhiles?What are the thoughts of the long DecembersWhen white and empty lie snowy miles?What is the picture that grows and smilesDeep in the heart of the glowing embers?
What is it most that the soul remembers
In the long years that come afterwhiles?
What are the thoughts of the long Decembers
When white and empty lie snowy miles?
What is the picture that grows and smiles
Deep in the heart of the glowing embers?
We dream no dream of the passing pleasuresThat held us thralls in an idle hour,We count no riches in heaping measuresNor pulse again with a futile power—Nay, a verdant tree or a crimson flowerIs the jewel then that the memory treasures.
We dream no dream of the passing pleasures
That held us thralls in an idle hour,
We count no riches in heaping measures
Nor pulse again with a futile power—
Nay, a verdant tree or a crimson flower
Is the jewel then that the memory treasures.
Oh, these are the visions that come long afterWhen face to face with our own sad soul;We see a tree in the smoky rafter,Behold a rose in the glowing coal;The months of Wintertime backward rollAnd the room is filled with the ghost of laughter.
Oh, these are the visions that come long after
When face to face with our own sad soul;
We see a tree in the smoky rafter,
Behold a rose in the glowing coal;
The months of Wintertime backward roll
And the room is filled with the ghost of laughter.
For here is the tree that we knew togetherWhen the ending year was a Springtime young;The northman’s pine and the Scotsman’s heather,The Briton’s oak where the children swung—Oh, these are the things by the night-wind sungAbove the roar of the wintry weather.
For here is the tree that we knew together
When the ending year was a Springtime young;
The northman’s pine and the Scotsman’s heather,
The Briton’s oak where the children swung—
Oh, these are the things by the night-wind sung
Above the roar of the wintry weather.
For all the year is a time of cloverWhile Memory sits by the ingleside,And Home goes forth with the world-wide roverTo ev’ry country o’er ev’ry tide;And when the Autumn has drooped and diedWe live our Summers, our Summers, over.
For all the year is a time of clover
While Memory sits by the ingleside,
And Home goes forth with the world-wide rover
To ev’ry country o’er ev’ry tide;
And when the Autumn has drooped and died
We live our Summers, our Summers, over.
Life has its seasons and life its sorrows,When the soul sits dreaming a dream like this,When the hungry heart from the pale past borrowsA silenced voice or an ended kiss—Yea, in our sorrow we find our bliss,And weave of Yesterdays our To-morrows.
Life has its seasons and life its sorrows,
When the soul sits dreaming a dream like this,
When the hungry heart from the pale past borrows
A silenced voice or an ended kiss—
Yea, in our sorrow we find our bliss,
And weave of Yesterdays our To-morrows.