Poem February 18, 1905 Issue

[Written for the Sentinel.]

The Golden Year

ROSE SEELYE-MILLER.

O Golden year, so swift, so sweet,
Thou passest by on hurrying feet.
When thou art gone, thou art not dead,
'Tis simply that thy feet have fled.

O golden year, for thee entwine
The sweetest flowers upon our shrine.
We'll not forget thee, though we may
Welcome another's coming day.

Thou'rt knit in every golden band,
In every fibre of life's strand;
In warp, in woof, and silvern sheen,
With many a roseate thread between.

And when we wake from mortal dreams,
Where Truth's white light eternal streams,
We'll know thou'rt but a shining strand
In time's unbroken, endless band.

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