Father Ryan's Poems (10)

    The brook that down the valley So musically drips, Flowed never half so brightly As the light laugh from her lips.

    Her face was like the lily, Her heart was like the rose, Her eyes were like a heaven Where the sunlight always glows.

    She trod the earth so lightly Her feet touched not a thorn； Her words wore all the brightness Of a young life's happy morn.

    Along her laughter rippled The melody of joy； She drank from every chalice, And tasted no alloy. Her life was all a laughter, Her days were all a smile, Her heart was pure and happy, She knew not gloom nor guile.

    She rested on the bosom Of her mother, like a flower That blooms far in a valley Where no storm-clouds ever lower.

    And —— "Merry, merry, merry！" Rang the bells of every hour, And -"Happy, happy, happy！" In her valley laughed the flower. There was not a sign of shadow, There was not a tear nor thorn, And the sweet voice of her laughter Filled with melody the morn.

    Years passed ——'twas long, long after, And I saw a face at prayer； There was not a sign of laughter, There was every sign of care. For the sunshine all had faded From the valley and the flower, And the once fair face was shaded In life's lonely evening hour.

    And the lips that smiled with laughter In the valley of the morn, In the valley of the evening They were pale and sorrow-worn. And I read the old, old lesson In her face and in her tears, While she sighed amid the shadows Of the sunset of her years.

    All the rippling streams of laughter From our hearts and lips that flow, Shall be frozen, cold years after, Into icicles of woe.