THEY are passing away, those fleeting

years

Like leaves on the river cast,
    They wait not for man, but onward they

flow;

Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks,

months, they go

    Into the wonderful past.
 
They are gliding past like a weaver's thread,
    And straight as the lightning's pointed

gleam,

And soft as the gentle summer's breeze,
That lightly sways the forest trees,
    And daintly ripples the glassy stream.
 
They are gliding past, like the thistles down,
    And still as the midnight dream,
And pure as the lark, when she tunes her

throat

To sing in the woodland her sweetest note;
    Those fleeting years, so tender they seem.

Yes, they are passing, one by one,
    Down the steps of time so rare;
We stop and think of their noiseless tread,
Of the centuries past, and long since dead,
    That were beautiful and fair.
 
Our years are few, though to some are given
    Their three score years and ten;
But that is a short and toilsome stay,
    For the fallen sons of men.
So rapid they fly from mortals below,
As swift as an arrow from the archer's bow;
    Bear each one onward through bliss and

woe.

 
As our years are few and fleeting, too,
    Shall we pass them in idle strife ?
Shall we trample them under our busy feet^__
Those beautiful years, so precious and

sweet^__

    As we travel the pathway of life?
 
And while our years are lengthened out,
    Harsh words should not be heard;

But our life be a pattern of rare design.
Until we are called this clay to resign,
    We should speak no evil word.

^__Anna A. Wright.