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 gem, Many find the thorn.

    Brief！ minutes pass Soft as flakes 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.