And the sunbeams, as they shine

On a world that is not mine.

Here I wait, while life shall last,

An old relic of the past,

Feeling strange, and far away

From the people of to-day;

Thankful for the memory dear

Of a morning, always near,

Though long vanished, and so fair!

Dewy flowers and April air;

Thankful that the storms of noon

Spent their force and died so soon;

Thankful, as their echoes cease,

For this twilight hour of peace.

But my life, to evening grown,

Still has pleasures of its own.

Up my stairway, long and steep,

Now and then the children creep;

Gather round me, where I sit

All day long, and dream, and knit;

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