The roses will bloom as red, dear, through all of the laughing land; The lilies will grow as white, dear, but neither will understand; For what is the rose and lily to hearts that murmur and moan, With eyes that were bright all dim, dear, and one of us here alone! IV. Ah, one that is left shall murmur and ask of the bud and bloom, And question the awful silence and mourn at the gates of gloom; And call through the nights of darkness and sit at the doors of woe, And never an answer at all, dear, from lips that it used to know! V. And one at the darkened window and door of the heart's old home. Shall wait with an unspoke welcome for one that shall never come; And one at the gate stand watching as there in the years before, While the latch of the gate is silent and one shall return no more! VI. Whichever it be that goes, dear, whichever it be that stays, The lily and rose shall bloom, dear, through all of the lonely days; And all that we lived so bravely and all that we loved so long Shall dwell with the one that stays, dear, and lighten the lips with song. VII. Enough that the joys were many, that Love was a sun and star! Enough that we knew the raptures as tired feet wandered far! Enough that the years were happy and sweet was the golden light That came at the first "Good Morning" and stayed till the last "Good Night!" Upward. What matters the tempest, The storm and the night? Up yonder is glowing The rainbow of light: And o'er the red path-ways to glory we go The feet of our faith in their happiness know! Success in its true sense is a personal and subjective matter, after all. Many have commanded armies and sat upon the purple thrones of the world with tear-stained cheeks and the unhappiest of hearts. Unless life has brought happiness to the one who spends it royally, failure of the most ignominious kind has been its dark achievement. Sooner Sayings. The gate to a cow pasture has rusty hinges. A horse's swiftness is not determined by the saddle he sports. The hoe and the branding-iron can't dwell as friends in the same settlement. Quit Grieving. Don't you go to grievin' At the cry of grief; If you'll try to whistle You will find relief! Mockin'-bird up yonder. Robin down below, An' the world a-singin' All the song's they know! A rose is only a rose after all, however sweet and beautiful it may be. And a weed is no worse than a weed, however noxious or deadly its exhalations. Neither can reach into the realm of the other or invade the world of its supremacy. Stick to the world in which you are born, and throw no bouquets at the impossible or the unattainable. To the Dawn.