Seemingly, as flit they past, Bring to memory hopes long shattered, Blissful dreams too bright to last. 

Voices, merry laughing voices, Fondly loved in other years, Mournfully are whispering to me That their mirth was drowned in tears. 

Telling of a fairer fortune Far away 'neath tropic skies, Telling of a broken circle, Scattered friends and severed ties. 

Other kindly, loving voices, Winning in the long ago, Tell me now, as then they told me,   "Thou canst live for weal or woe." 

Are these weird and mystic voices But creations of the brain? Only in illusive fancy Must I hear their tones again? 

Would some magic power lend me Aid to stay the witching tone, Art to pain the beauteous picture Ere its impress swift has flown. 

While I dreamed the day has faded, Stars are shining overhead, Evening winds have ceased to whisper, Twilight's shadows all have fled. 

Thus, too oft, our life-work seemeth, And we, when disowned its sway, Find we are pursuing phantoms, Shadows in the twilight gray. 

 

     HOME. 

 "How many times and oft" has the sweet, sweet word been sung in song and told in story. And he sang sweetest of home, who had never a home on earth. If one to whom home was only a poet's dream, could portray its charms by only imagination, until a million hearts thrilled with responsive echo, how deeper, how more intense must be his longings and recollections who treasures, deep down in his heart the sweet delights and pure associations that he has known, but never may know again. We do not appreciate our blessings until they have passed. We do not try to gather the sunbeams until the clouds have obscured them. 

 How many and many a youth, brave-hearted and true, answers with eager haste the war call of his native land all heedless of the home he is leaving, and the loving arms that sheltered him there. But when his soldier's blood is crimsoning the sands beneath a foreign sky, the thoughts that go with his ebbing life are of home—all of home. 

 Who rushes from his home out into the world, blind devotee of fortune's phantom goddess, to realize a phantom indeed, sits down in his despondency and his despair, to dream of "dear old home". 

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