The old year may die and a new year be born
       That is bleaker and colder: 
     It cannot dismay us; we dare it, we scorn,
       For our love makes us bolder. 
     Ah, Robin! sing loud on your far distant lea,
       You friend in fair weather! 
     But here is a song sung that’s fuller of glee,
       By two warm hearts together.

     [Illustration:]
     [Illustration:]

     AN ANSWER.

     If all the year was summer time,
       And all the aim of life
     Was just to lilt on like a rhyme,
       Then I would be your wife.

     If all the days were August days,
       And crowned with golden weather,
     How happy then through green-clad ways
       We two could stray together!

     If all the nights were moonlit nights,
       And we had naught to do
     But just to sit and plan delights,
       Then I would wed with you.

     If life was all a summer fete,
       Its soberest pace the “glide,”
     Then I would choose you for my mate,
       And keep you at my side.

     But winter makes full half the year,
       And labor half of life,
     And all the laughter and good cheer
       Give place to wearing strife.

     Days will grow cold, and moons wax old. 
       And then a heart that’s true
     Is better far than grace or gold—­
       And so, my love, adieu! 
       I cannot wed with you.

     YOU WILL FORGET ME.

     You will forget me.  The years are so tender,
       They bind up the wounds which we think are so deep;
     This dream of our youth will fade out as the splendor
       Fades from the skies when the sun sinks to sleep;
     The cloud of forgetfulness, over and over
       Will banish the last rosy colors away,
     And the fingers of time will weave garlands to cover
       The scar which you think is a life-mark to-day.

     You will forget me.  The one boon you covet
       Now above all things will soon seem no prize;
     And the heart, which you hold not in keeping to prove it
       True or untrue, will lose worth in your eyes. 
     The one drop to-day, that you deem only wanting
       To fill your life-cup to the brim, soon will seem
     But a valueless mite; and the ghost that is haunting
       The aisles of your heart will pass out with the dream.

     You will forget me; will thank me for saying
       The words which you think are so pointed with pain. 
     Time loves a new lay; and the dirge he is playing
       Will change for you soon to a livelier strain. 
     I shall pass from your life—­I shall pass out forever,
       And these hours we have spent will be sunk in the past. 
     Youth buries its dead; grief kills seldom or never,
       And forgetfulness covers all sorrows at last.