CHILDHOOD REVERIE by C. M. Snow

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Oct 1, 1894

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 20, No. 47.

CHILDHOOD REVERIE.

By C. M. Snow

BY C. M. SNOW.

Into the realms of the shadowy past The years of our youthtime are flitting so fast! Like a swift bird of passage that never returns, Like a flickering candle that fades as it burns, Like a midsummer brooklet in fetterless flow, They glide from our grasp, and we grieve as they go. On swift, noiseless wings, or on down-covered feet They flee in all haste to their silent retreat.

Through a flower-gemmed valley, pursuing, we haste, Nor heed the rich beauties there drooping in waste. We chase the sweet hours that flitted before— They were once in our grasp, but we find them no more.

The way grows more weary, the flowers more rare; There's a hush in the voice of the high mountain air. More slowly we climb, more worn with the strife; High noon is the hour—'tis the midday of life. The vision advances; we, seeking, pursue; Still higher we climb; broader, farther the view.

When the bright shades of evening are tinting the west, And our toil-weary bodies are longing for rest, We may gaze on the path we have trodden in haste, And sigh for the joys of that flowery waste. Beneath us are lying the valley and plain And the height where we hoped the fleet phantom to gain; But the rare golden hours of our youthtime are fled; The flowers by the wayside are faded and dead. We sought them in vale and on loftiest height, Till around us was wrapped the dark mantle of night.

In the evening of life we still long for the past, And scarce heed the days that are flitting so fast. Our memory's a sea, where our visions will swim While the beacon of life flickers faintly and dim. Recollection's a forest, with bare limbs o'erhead, Where our youth days like leaves rustle soft to our tread.

Then chide not the aged when childish they seem; Eternity beckons; their past is a dream. The days they have lived they are living again; They are plucking the flowers they heeded not then. The sweets they had missed when the race was begun They are sipping again ere their daydream is done. Amazed they are viewing that echoless clime, With its borderless sea and its measureless time. They are crossing the bourne of a limitless land, With a flickering flame in their faltering hand. With the clutch of a miser they eagerly hoard The last slipping strands of that silvery cord. How priceless the moments when all in the past, And a spiritless hand holds the last, last, last!