How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow, And the summers like buds between; And the years in the sheaf--so they come and they go On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow, As they glide in the shadow and sheen. There's a magical Isle up the River Time, Where the softest of airs are playing, There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, And a voice as sweet as a vesper chime, And the Junes with the roses are staying. And the name of this Isle is the Long Ago, And we bury our treasures there; There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow-- There are heaps of dust, but we love them so! There are trinkets and tresses of hair. There are fragments of songs that nobody sings, And a part of an infant's prayer, There's a harp unswept and a lute without strings, There are broken vows and pieces of rings, And the garments she used to wear. There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore By the mirage is lifted in air; And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, When the wind down the river is fair. Oh, remembered for aye be the blessed Isle All the day of our life till night, And when evening comes with its beautiful smile, And our eyes are closing in slumber awhile, May that "Greenwood" of soul be in sight. It made him realize that on the "river of time" there are many trials, tribulations and disappointments. While he was young in years he had experienced many of them, and it seemed to him that the last five days had been five years. When he read the lines of the poem: "Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, when the wind down the river is fair" and "Our eyes are closing in slumber awhile," he thought of Marie, her beautiful eyes and sweet voice; all the happy things she had ever said; the things that she had written, and like a voice coming across the stillness of the night, he seemed to hear Marie calling as she used to call: "Robert, dear," "Robert dear." He jumped from his chair, startled, because for a moment he thought it was her voice, for he had been hoping and expecting each moment to hear her voice, but alas it was only a ghost of imagination and no Marie was there and no news of her. Robert turned another page and read: "Crossing the Bar," by Tennyson: Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me, And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea. But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep, Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark; And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark. For tho' from out our bourne of time and place, The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar. He read the last verse several times.