TO ANNA

Sixteen! and life to thee looks bright and fair;—

A book unread, rose-tinted, golden edged,

Encased in binding curious, costly, rare;—

And all the years to be thou holdest pledged

To give thee from its pages, day by day,

Readings to cheer and bless the blithesome way.

And life is such a volume, only thou,

From garnered storage of the heart and mind,

Must fill unwritten pages, and allow

Fair pictures — of pure thought, of self resigned,

Of kindly deeds — each new-made page to grace;—

How blest if none thou, later, woulds't efface!

Sixteen! A May-day in the path of life,

A marvelous puzzle on the finger twirled;

Sixteen again; a stir of earnest strife

And toil and tumult in a restless world;

Repeated still,— a patient, steadfast hold

On good attained,— ripe fruit, and grain of gold.

Sixteen once more! Serene in shade or sun,

A brighter outlook now; existence grand!

Content in hopes fulfilled, in victories won,

Mingling with holier yearnings for that land,

Whose o'er-flown radiance and whose surplus bliss

Have been the glory and the joy of this.