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_TO_
_JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY,_
_IN AFFECTIONATE_
_MEMORY OF OTHER DAYS._
_Our dearest joys forever flow_
_From fountains of the Long Ago,_
_That from the heights of pleasures past_
_Flood all the present valleys vast,_
_And with eternal glees provide_
_The future's endless ocean tide._
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_To ope each cage where a heartless age_
_Hath chained the birds of singing,_
_Till Love's own glee that is fond and free_
_Shall laugh where they are winging,--_
_Such is my wish. 'Tis true, hold I,_
_That songs, like birds, in bondage die._
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