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T
HE deepest truths we hope to gain, are found along a higher plane; The purest air the heavens distil, may touch the brow of highest hill; The deepest river, down the vale, speaks not of pebbles, tells no tale-- It smoothly moves above them all, not quick to rise, nor quick to fall, But even tenure in its ways, fills gold-bound books with deepest praise, As master penmen in our time seek harmony in word and line. And thus life's summers come and go, and thus the sun- kissed fruitage show Where golden beams had loved to cling and tell the pleasure of the spring; So fair the picture as I see--it may not come again to me, But so it be, I fondly look, on lovely blossoms in a book Which once I pressed in spring-day time, for autumn, when perchance were mine A faded leaf, a, tale to tell, which all our books record so well And take us back through years, so plain, to clover-fields and springs again, Where dancing butterflies would come, likewise the busy bees would hum; All in their sweetness showed to me, that spring was charming as could be, And now that early book I read; it seems exactly what I need To fit me for the winter's day, and then the faith-bridge leads to May. |