That boy has now become a man, and he has vainly sought, in all the glittering pursuits of life, an adequate recompense for the death of those soft hours.

Having gone, as all things must go, they left no equivalent in the future.

But not, therefore, in sadness does he write this: rather in deep joy, and as though he had said-- 'Give me a golden pen, and let me lean On heaped-up flowers--' "So wholly flooded is his heart with the memory of that young, frank face.

She wore a pink dress, he recollects--all children should wear either pink or white--and her hair was in long, bright curls, and her eyes were diamonds, full of light.

He thought the birds were envious of her singing, when she carolled clearly in the bright May morning.
He wove her a garland of flowers for her hair, and she blushed as she took it from his hands.