We take from life one little share,
⁠And say that this shall be
A space, redeemed from toil and care,
⁠From tears and sadness free.

And, haply, Death unstrings his bow
⁠And Sorrow stands apart,
And, for a little while, we know
⁠The sunshine of the heart.

Existence seems a summer eve,
⁠Warm, soft, and full of peace;
Our free, unfettered feelings give
⁠The soul its full release.

A moment, then, it takes the power,
⁠To call up thoughts that throw
Around that charmed and hallowеd hour,
⁠This life's divinest glow.

But Time, though viеwlessly it flies,
⁠And slowly, will not stay;
Alike, through clear and clouded skies,
⁠It cleaves its silent way.

Alike the bitter cup of grief,
⁠Alike the draught of bliss,
Its progress leaves but moment brief
⁠For baffled lips to kiss.
The sparkling draught is dried away,
⁠The hour of rest is gone,
And urgent voices, round us, say,
⁠"Ho, lingerer, hasten on!"

And has the soul, then, only gained,
⁠From this brief time of ease,
A moment's rest, when overstrained,
⁠One hurried glimpse of peace?

No; while the sun shone kindly o'er us,
⁠And flowers bloomed round our feet,—
While many a bud of joy before us
⁠ its petals sweet,—

An unseen work within was plying;
⁠Like honey-seeking bee,
From flower to flower, unwearied, flying,
⁠ one faculty,—

Thoughtful for Winter's future sorrow,
⁠Its gloom and scarcity;
Prescient to-day, of want to-morrow,
⁠Toiled quiet Memory.

'Tis she that from each transient pleasure
⁠Extracts a lasting good;
'Tis she that finds, in summer, treasure
⁠To serve for winter's food.
And when Youth's summer day is vanished,
⁠And Age brings Winter's stress,
Her stores, with hoarded sweets replenished,
⁠Life's evening hours will bless.