“To-Days”

Brief while they last,

Long when they are gone;

They catch from the past

A light to still live on.

Brief! yet I ween

A day may be an age,

The poet's pen may screen

Heart-stories on one page.

Brief! but in them,

From eve back to morn,

Some find the gem,

Many find the thorn.

Brief! minutes pass

Soft as flakes of snow,

Shadows o'er the grass

Could not swifter go.

Brief! but along

All the after-years

To-day will be a song

Of smiles or of tears.