THE HOLLY—OLD AGE. 
75 
Yain those pauses on the road, each seeming 
As our final home and resting-place; 
And the leaving them, while tears were streaming 
Of eternal sorrow down our face ; 
And the hands we held, fond folly dreaming 
That no future could their touch efface. 
All will then be faded :—night will borrow 
Stars of light to crown our perfect rest; 
And the dim vague memory of faint sorrow 
Just remain to show us all was best; 
Then melt into a divine to-morrow:— 
Oh, how poor a day to be so blest! 
A. A. Procter. 
LONDON : STRANGE WAYS AND WALDEN, PRINTERS, 
CASTLE ST. LEICESTER SQ. 
