WHEN we all lived together
In the farm among the hills,
And the early summer weather
Had flushed the little rills;

And Jack and Tom were playing
Beside the open door,
And little Jane was maying
On the slanting meadow floor;

And mother clipped the trellis,
And father read his book
By the little attic window,—
So close above the brook:

How little did we reckon
Of ghosts that flit and pass,
Of fates that nod and beckon
In the shadows on the grass;

Of beauty soon deflowered,
Engulfed, and borne away,—
And youth that sinks devoured
In the chasm of a day!

Courageous and undaunted,
As in a golden haze
We lived a life enchanted,
Nor stopped to count the days.

We that were in the story
Saw not the magic light,
The pathos, and the glory
That shines on me to-night.