The world's rude waves had not begun
Across our path to sweep,
We never--save from happiness--
Had cause to sigh or weep.
But many weary years have passed
Since that bright April eve,
And you have learned since then to weep,
And I have learned to grieve;
And on thy brow, unfurrowed then,
Time, and his sister, Care,
Have set their wrinkled seal, and strewed
Their silver in thy hair.
Nor Time, nor Care, nor world's rude waves,
Have had the power to chill
The holy love which then we vowed,
That is unclouded still;
And until Death--the reaper--comes,
It ne'er shall flow away--
Our tide of love which first began
Upon that April day.
HUMAN LONGINGS FOR PEACE AND REST.
THERE are few whose idea of happiness does not include peace as
essential. Most men have been so tempest-tossed, and not comforted,
that they long for a closing of all excitements at last in peace.
Hence the images of the haven receiving the shattered bark, of the
rural vale remote from the noise of towns, have always been dear to
human fancy. Hence, too, the decline of life away from severe toil,
rapid motion, and passionate action, has often a charm even beyond
the kindling enterprise of youth.
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