And gaz'd on his calm looks. A minute's space In its most subtle luxury. The air Is like a breathing from a rarer world; I know it has been trifling with the rose, For all God's creatures in it. The wet leaves I had awoke from an unpleasant dream, The feeling of the captive who comes forth By a sweet breath from nature; or the gloom Of a bereaved affection pass away With looking on the lively tint of flowers- To make this beautiful, bright world its home! SATURDAY AFTERNOON. (A PICTURE.) I LOVE to look on a scene like this, Of wild and careless play, And persuade myself that I am not old, For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, And the light of a pleasant eye. I have walked the world for fourscore years; And they say that I am old, |