Tones that age could ne’er destroy, Struck her little wondering boy With a majesty of joy; And at times has striven Something grand within her eyes, As from out the cloud-heaped skies Some strong angel vainly tries To call to us from heaven. Days agone! days agone! When the world was all at dawn, And the heaven round it drawn, Smiled so near above us; Then the sun shone real gold, Then the flowers true stories told, Then the stars were angels bold Reaching down to love us. Then a marvel, now a flower, Seen in any common bower, Fed with common earth and shower, Common sunlight under. Then an angel, now a star, Small and bleak and very far; Nothing left for folly’s mar, Naught for happy wonder. I have learned to smile at youth; I have learned to question truth; I can hear my brother’s truth With a sage misgiving. I have grown too wise to see False delights in things that be; Far too wise for childhood’s glee— Nay—is learning living? Days agone, days agone! Bitter-sweet to muse upon, Counting up the lost and won In the coals at even. Never more—never more! Comes the witless bliss of yore; Baby faith and baby lore— God! is knowledge heaven? * * * * * SONNET. TO JULIA, ON HER OWN EYES, AND HER SISTER LESBIA’S. BY G. McC. M. Night’s star-gemmed coronal is not more bright Than are those flashing, joy-lit eyes of thine; Me thinks I should not need the day-orb’s light, When on my path such lovely planets shine. Like veins of gold that sparkle in the mine, Their glittering radiance dazzles the beholder; And yet to me thy brilliant eyes seem colder Than Arctic ice or snows. Far more benign And beauteous are the windows of her soul Whom I have loved—the long desired goal Of my most cherished hopes. The paly moon Sheds not a softer light on copse and stream Than on my heart her lucid orbs. The moon Of Summer is not warmer than her blue eye’s beam. * * * * * FLOWERS AND LIFE. BY MARY HOWITT. [Illustration: figure of a man and woman standing on a pedestle and framed by flowers] The autumn sun is shining, Gray mists are on the hill; A russet tint is on the leaves, But flowers are blowing still! Still bright, in wood and meadow; On moorlands dry and brown; By little streams; by rivers broad; On every breezy down. The little flowers are smiling, With chilly dew-drops wet, Are saying with a spirit-voice— “We have not vanished yet!