Alike the bitter cup of grief,
Alike the draught of bliss,
Its progress leaves but moment brief
For baffled lips to kiss.
The sparkling draught is dried away,
The hour of rest is gone,
And urgent voices, round us, say,
"Ho, lingerer, hasten on!"
And has the soul, then, only gained,
From this brief time of ease,
A moment's rest, when overstrained,
One hurried glimpse of peace?
No; while the sun shone kindly o'er us,
And flowers bloomed round our feet,—
While many a bud of joy before us
its petals sweet,—
An unseen work within was plying;
Like honey-seeking bee,
From flower to flower, unwearied, flying,
one faculty,—
Thoughtful for Winter's future sorrow,
Its gloom and scarcity;
Prescient to-day, of want to-morrow,
Toiled quiet Memory.
