_The days are pictures, and they pass
As comes and goes some mirage sheen,
As fireflies in the tangled grass,
Or shadows thrown upon the screen.
Pictures they are of love and care;
Pictures of toil and happiness;
Of mighty men, of ladies fair--
Incarnate strength and gentleness;
Pictures of battle and the night
That touches woe with cooling breath;
Of calm years following the fight,
When blossoms deck the fields of death;
Pictures of paths that wind, and meet
Where Fate’s decrees have willed it so,
Or where erstwhile companion feet
Are led in separate ways to go.
The days are pictures, and they run
Their hastening course of smiles and tears.
As shadows flit ’twixt sun and sun,
So pass the ever-dying years_.