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That life is spent.

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TIME keeps no measure when true friends are parted,—

No record day by day;

The sands move not for those who, loyal-hearted,

Friendship’s firm laws obey.

It is not well to note with dull precision

The flight of days or years;

Memory depends not on a proof by vision,

And has no foolish fears.

The migrant birds when they are Southward flying

Have no regrets; they go

Full of the knowledge born of faith undying,

That they again shall know

The homes and nests which they have left behind them

Unmarred by change the while;

The Southern lands they seek will but remind them

Of the North’s summer smile.

And so I know that you will come to meet me

In the old, well-loved way;

That, though a year go by, you still will greet me

As kindly as to-day.

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WHERE are you going my bright blue eyes,

My boy so happy-hearted?

You are very young and very wise,

And early you have started.

Where is the city you’re bound for, lad?

Come tell me of it truly;