Classic Poem

Days that glide in an even rhyme
To which our feet keep steady time—
Be they in May or December;—
Days when life is a summer sea,
Whereon lie ships rocked dreamily;
Days when an easy round of care,
Is all the load that our shoulders bear;
Days that a calm succession keep
Of peaceful labor and peaceful sleep;
Days that serenely slip away,
With little of sorrow, yet scarcely gay;—
Are not the days that we remember.

Days that are fraught with throbs of bliss,
With love's caress, with love's close kiss—
Be they in May or December;—
Days when rush through our wilderness
Whelming torrents of happiness;
Days when the heart, in its joyous swell,
Beats and throbs like a festive bell;
And days, oh! days when we sit alone
With dumb, white lips that make no moan,
By close-sealed vaults, whose chambers cold
Our lovliest, dearest treasures hold;
When, as the heavy hours drag by,
We long—and long in vain—to die:—
These are the days that we remember.