Shall Love, As The Bridal Wreath, Whither And Die?

Poem By Alfred Castner King

Shall love as the bridal wreath, wither and die?
Or remain ever constant and sure,
As the years of the future pass rapidly by,
And the waves of adversity's tempest roll high,
Ever changeless and fervent endure?

Mistake not the fancy, that lasts but a day,
For the love which eternally thrives;
That sentiment false, is as prone to decay
As the wreath is to fade and to wither away;
And like it, it never revives.

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The Fallen Tree.

I passed along a mountain road,
Which led me through a wooded glen,
Remote from dwelling or abode
And ordinary haunts of men;
And wearied from the dust and heat.
Beneath a tree, I found a seat.

The Miner.

Clink! Clink! Clink!
The song of the hammer and drill!
At the sound of the whistle so shrill and clear,
He must leave the wife and the children dear,
In his cabin upon the hill.

The First Storm.

The leafless branch and meadow sere,
The dull and leaden skies,
Join with the mournful wind and drear

The Legend Of St. Regimund.

St. Regimund, e'er he became a saint,
Was much imbued with vulgar earthly taint;
E'er he renounced the honors of a Knight
And doffed his coat of mail and helmet bright,

Smiles.

There is the warm, congenial smile,
Benign, and honest, too,
Free from deception, fraud, and guile;
The smile of friendship true.