Happy Days

A fringe of rushes -- one green line
   Upon a faded plain;
A silver streak of water-shine --
   Above, tree-watchers twain.
It was our resting-place awhile,
   And still, with backward gaze,
We say: "'Tis many a weary mile --
   But there were happy days."

And shall no ripple break the sand
   Upon our farther way?
Or reedy ranks all knee-deep stand?
   Or leafy tree-tops sway?
The gold of dawn is surely met
   In sunset's lavish blaze;
And -- in horizons hidden yet --
   There shall be happy days.

by Mary Hannay Foott

Other poems of MARY HANNAY FOOTT (31)

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