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The Days That are Not.

   The path still winds afar,   Where the wealth of daisies are,And the tangled grasses bend beneath the breeze;   The swallows sail, and swing,   And the happy woodlands ring,With melodies of bird-songs in the trees.
   The flowery fields are fair,   And the bounding brook is there,But the scene has lost its old, peculiar joys;   From the bending blue has fled   The splendor, that it shed,When I used to go a-fishing with the boys.
   The summer sun has lost   The glory that he tossedOn the waves that rippled 'round the bare brown feet;   And I sit and sadly dream   By the wayward-wending stream,Where I wandered with the boys when life was sweet.
   A sadness shrouds the heart,   And the floods of sorrow start,When memory tells her tale of vanished days;   When the gray of gloaming falls   On the jewelled western walls,And I walk again the old familiar ways.

Herbert L. Brewster.

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