THE PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY 141 



ago the iris and the four-o'clocks in a 

 child's garden we can still see in recollec- 

 tion's magic glass. And they are brighter 

 than any rose that opened this morning. We 

 have forgotten things without number ; but 

 other things we shall never forget them. 

 A friend or two that died when they and we 

 were young ; " the loveliest and the best ; " 

 we can see them more plainly than most of 

 those whose empty, conventionalized faces, 

 each like the other, each wearing its mask, 

 we meet day by day in the common round of 

 business and pleasure. Death, which seemed 

 to destroy them, has but set them beyond 

 the risk of alteration and forgetfulness. 



After all, the past is our one sure posses- 

 sion. There is our miser's chest. With that, 

 while memory holds for us the key, we shall 

 still be rich. There we will spend our gray 

 hours, with friends that have kept their 

 youth ; one of the best of them our own true 

 self, not as we were, nor as we are, but as we 

 meant to be. 



" These pleasures, Melancholy, give ; 

 And I with thee will choose to lire." 



