SLIPPING AWAY.
THEY are slipping away—these sweet, swift years,
Like a leaf on the current cast;
With never a break in the rapid flow,
We watch them, as one by one they go
Into the beautiful past.
As silent and swift as a weaver's thread,
Or an arrow's flying gleam;
As soft as the languorous breezes hid,
That light the willow's long golden lid,
And ripple the glassy stream.
As light as the breath of the thistle-down,
As fond as a maiden's dream;
As pure as the flush in the sea-shell's throat,
As sweet as the wood-bird's wooing note,
So tender and dear they seem.
One after another we see them pass,
Down the dim-lighted stair;
We hear the sound of their heavy tread,
In the steps of the centuries long since dead,
As beautiful and fair.
There are only a few years left to love;
Shall we waste them in idle strife?
Shall we trample under our ruthless feet,
Those beautiful blossoms, rare and sweet,
By the dusky way of life?
There are only a few swift years—ah! Let
No envious taunts be heard;
Make life's fair pattern of rare design,
And till up the measure with love's sweet wine,
But never an angry word.
--Selected.