NOTHING LOST. @HERE are last year's snows, Who is there who knows? Or the glorious note Or the love they bore Or the faiths men knew The snows are sweet spring rain, The old affection mild For love, and friend, and child. The old faiths grown more wide, Are still our life-long guide. Nothing that once has been, And it be no more seen, Can perish, for the Will LEWIS MORRIS. IFE knows no dead so beautiful As is the white cold-coffin'd past; JOAQUIN MILLER. CHANGED. ROM the outskirts of the town, Of the dark and haunted wood. Is it changed, or am I changed? Bright as ever flows the sea, Bright as ever shines the sun, But, alas! they seem to me Not the tides that used to run. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. OIKE to the moan of buried rivers, ៦៥ Heard faintly as they roam, While the wild rock around them shivers Beneath the life that weighs and presses, With muffled undertone, Throbs in the spirit's worn recesses, If, in the tumult of existence, It whisper soft and low, Yea seem, scarce heard through depths of distance, To melt away and go: Yet oft, when stars more whitely glitter, When moons are waning chill, That tide unseen grows loud and bitter, |