THE hurry of the moving is over,
And this is our bright new home,
Where never a sob has sounded,
Where never a sin has come.
We seem to be shorter people,
So missing our ceiling low;
The hall and the winding stairway
Seem very long ways to go.
I stand on the threshold thinking
Of guests we shall hither bring—
Guests who within are waiting,
Smiling or sorrowing.
We bring it some pleasant laughter;
Some tears, as a mortal must;
Some prayers, with our full thanksgiving;
Some treasure that may not rust.
We'll find merry youth for Mabel;
For Fred there is manhood s crown;
For the mother, life's sweet autumn,
Golden, and red, and brown.
For me, as I linger longer,
The silvery sifting snow
That comes in the truthful mirror
As youth and its roses go.