WHERE are last year's snows,
Where the summer's rose,
Who is there that knows ?
Or the glorious note
Of some singer's throat,
Heard in years remote ?
Or the love they bore
Who, in days of yore,
Loved, but are no more?
Or the faiths men knew
When, before mind grew,
All strange things seemed true?
* * * *
The snows are sweet spring rain,
The dead rose blooms again,
Young voices keep the strain.
The old affection mild
Still springs up undefined
For love, and friend, and child.
The old faiths grown more wide,
Purer and glorified,
Are still our lifelong guide.
Nothing that once has been,
Tho' ages roll between
And it be no more seen,
Can perish, for the Will
Which doth our being fulfil,
Sustains and keeps it still.
