William Bartlett Tyler

AS when a player, weary of the day,

Takes up his instrument and plays along,

First aimlessly, until unto some song,

Heard long ago, his fingers find their way,—

The old tune bringing memories which lay

Deep buried in the past, once glad and strong,—

He feels again those joys around him throng,

And weeps erewhile to think they cannot stay;

So I, a-weary with the passing hours,

In musing fell upon the name of one,

Now dead and gone, who was once dear to me,

And recollection sweet as summer showers

Came back, swift as the first, faint gleams that run,

At dawn, across a great gray waste of sea.