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 gem¹, Many find the thorn.

    Brief！ minutes pass Soft as flakes² 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.