Lost.

CHILDHOOD flits by with flowers in both its hands,— We know not why it leaves, nor when it goes; But suddenly we miss some subtle grace, As perfume passes from a fading rose; We scarce divine, yet somehow faintly feel In the soft air a far-blown breath of snows.

Straying afar, unheeded and alone Upon life's highway 'mid the busy throng, Swept in its eager, restless race along To the great future, unexplored, unknown, The little child is lost. And when with haste The wanderer's footsteps through the streets are traced, They find a man with features pale and stern, But the lost child will nevermore return.