Memory, unfaithful, has not kept that strain,
Heard once in the twilight, never heard again.
Every day brings twilight, but no twilight brings
To my ear that music on its quiet wings.
After autumn sunsets, in the dreaming light,
When long summer evenings deepen into night,
All that I am sure of, is that, long ago,
Some one sang at twilight, very sweet and low.
PHILIP C. PECK.
_Yale Literary Magazine_.
~The Truth-Seekers.~
They who sought Truth since dawn
And sought in vain,
Now, at the close of day.
Come with slow step and faces drawn
With nameless pain,
To meet the night half-way.
"She whom we love is not!
Of her no sight
Had we, nor faintest trace!"
"Nay, here am I ye sought!"--
Beyond the night
They met her, face to face.
FRANCIS CHARLES MCDONALD.
_Nassau Literary Monthly_.
~To-morrow.~
There is a day which never comes
To light the morning sky,
But in our thoughts alone it lives,
And there may never die;
It holds our hopes of future bliss,
Our aspirations high,
And life itself is but a point
In that eternity--
To-morrow.
Each sunset brings us nearer that
Which earth shall not behold,
Where, far away beyond the hills
And through the clouds of gold,
We see a glimpse of brighter hours
Than tongue of bard has told,
When marks of time will be effaced,
When men will not grow old--
To-morrow.
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