The Evanescent

Where is the country of our young enchantment? The lovely, lovely land we used to know, Where summer built for us her green pavilions And winter wove for us her robes of snow,— Ah then at dawning all the wide horizon Called us away and beckoned us to go!

Where is the country of the morning-glories, Where have departed all its nights of blue, When we could dance 'till little stars grew tired And the sweet rose of day came shining through— Dance as the elves and fauns and fairies used to In that dim time when all the hills were new.

Something has gone that we may not recapture, Something untamed—something unbound and rare, Essence of April—breath of early blossoms Shaken from orchards—blown upon the air—; Glamour of dreams, and faith in God's glad heaven— Balm of soft sleep unstirred by any care.

Sweetness of youth,—but this we may remember; This for our keeping when all else is said— Haunting and strange as perfume of old amber Locked in its gold from cedar trees long dead. Country of youth—and fountain of enchantment— Ah Ponce de Leon—where have its waters fled?

Warwick Bros. & Rutter, Limited Printers and Bookbinders Toronto