For works with similar titles, see
Years.
| THE YEARS.
|
Why do we heap huge mounds of years,
Before us and behind,
And scorn the little days that pass
Like angels on the wind?
Each, turning round a small, sweet face
As beautiful as near,
Because it is so small a face
We will not see it clear.
And so it turns from us, and goes
Away in sad disdain;
Though we could give our lives for it,
It never comes again.
Miss Mulock.
|