Brief while they last,
Long when they are gone;
They catch from the past
A light to still live on.
Brief! yet I ween
A day may be an age,
The poet’s pen may screen
Heart-stories on one page.
Brief! but in them,
From eve back to morn,
Some find the gem,
Many find the thorn.
Brief! minutes pass
Soft as flakes of snow,
Shadows o’er the grass
Could not swifter go.
Brief! but along
All the after-years
To-day will be a song
Of smiles or of tears.