Freston
67
The grave mistake, poor Folly's song;
The laughter that but checked the tear,
The gentle word that hid the sneer;—
The nettle-sting of so-called friends,
The poisoned dart that, well aimed, sends
The laughter that but checked the tear,
The gentle word that hid the sneer;—
The nettle-sting of so-called friends,
The poisoned dart that, well aimed, sends
Back o'er the heart a surge of pain,
Though one may smile and smile again.
('Twas not your gift old year,—the cure,—
This boundless courage to endure!
To meet Fate's shafts with smiling eye,
Give blow for blow, or pass them by.)
All this the meed of one short year,—
To-night I'll rake together here,
Though one may smile and smile again.
('Twas not your gift old year,—the cure,—
This boundless courage to endure!
To meet Fate's shafts with smiling eye,
Give blow for blow, or pass them by.)
All this the meed of one short year,—
To-night I'll rake together here,
And on your back the burden lay,
And let you bear it far away,
I'll have no memories dim the cheer
With which I greet the glad New Year.
But hold! There is one gift you gave,
Out of them all I fain would save!
The memory of a tender heart,
That drew from mine pain's keenest dart,—
And let you bear it far away,
I'll have no memories dim the cheer
With which I greet the glad New Year.
But hold! There is one gift you gave,
Out of them all I fain would save!
The memory of a tender heart,
That drew from mine pain's keenest dart,—
A few bright hours I still would hold,
Deep in my soul, enshrined in gold.
A vision of dear eyes of blue,
A glint of curls of golden hue,
Deep in my soul, enshrined in gold.
A vision of dear eyes of blue,
A glint of curls of golden hue,
